


A Night with the Queen

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Vignettes, allies to friends to lovers, canon compliant(ish)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: A collection of nights Eist Tuirseach has spent in the company of the Queen of Cintra, from his very first to his very last.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 97
Kudos: 96





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, guys. I just wanted to explore these two and the evolution of their relationship to and with each other. It's gonna be a melange of hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, smut, romance, etc. Normally I have a clear story outline but this time we're just gonna follow along and see where it leads. So...here we go.

**Cintra. Spring, 1242.**

Mousesack tugs Eist’s collar into place, earning him a growl from the younger man. Not that he pays it much mind, at this point. The king’s younger brother has been in a rather petulant mood all day, still balking at the idea of having to attend yet another royal function that isn’t Skelligen. This one is going to be particularly grueling: it's a week-long conclave at the Cintran capitol, in the interest of creating and ratifying a peace treaty among most of the northern kingdoms, plus the Skellige Isles. An entire week of day-long meetings and discussions and false smiles and carefully-chosen words.

This is the lot of younger brothers, Eist is learning. Kings have to stay put on their thrones, excepting matters of war. And their brothers become diplomats and envoys, forever parading around court to court, spilling goodwill at the feet of every king and queen with a bow and a smile.

It is not best suited to Eist’s temperament, Mousesack could admit. Still, Bran is determined to make a diplomat of his brother, or kill him under the weight of the tedium in the process.

The herald takes their names with a slight tilt of his head, turning stiffly towards the rest of the court to formally and loudly announce them.

This is Eist’s least favorite part. The shifting of the crowd, all turning to look in curiosity or disdain or both.

He doesn’t mind commanding attention, when the moment calls for it—when leading his men, or perhaps entertaining a group of beautiful women. But the idea of needing someone to bellow your name aloud, just so everyone would stop and look at you—it feels childish, like a toddler stamping their foot and yelling: _look, look at me, special boy am I!_

Ridiculous. Pompous. Needless. Everything he hates about life at court, rolled into one big, overly public affair.

He manages to hide his utter distaste behind a tight smile, scanning the room and praying for a familiar face—an old comrade from a skirmish perhaps, they always make good drinking buddies. At least here, in Cintra, he is more apt to run into a friend, being so much closer to home.

Kaedwen, the most recent stop on the never-ending list of errands for his brother, had been enough to do his head in completely. Stodgy old men, most of whom had never picked up a blade in their life, and overly-virtuous women, most of whom would probably faint at the mere mention of a cock. Not his kind of people, through and through.

Mousesack’s hand at his elbow makes him want to growl again, but he refrains. He knows what comes next—Great Father, he’s done this dance plenty of times over the past few weeks and months.

He strides up to the main table, where King Roegner is already seated, watching over the proceedings with an amused air.

Roegner is a country bumpkin, as far as royals go. He was a nobody from nowhere, and yet, he became king. Eist finds that he can respect the man far more than most of the perfumed princes he’s come across. The King of Cintra might rule the mightiest kingdom of the north, but he still has a touch of the common man.

“Eist Tuirseach, Jarl of Skellige.” Roegner smiles at him, opening his arms good-naturedly. “So good of you to join us this night. I look forward to hearing your brother’s ideas for peace, in the coming days.”

Eist bows, pasting on his usual polite smile. “As I look forward to sharing those ideas with you, your highness.”

He offers another smile to the woman seated at Roegner’s left hand, obviously his queen. He’s heard tales of the Lioness, but she looks even younger than he’d imagined. Fair-haired, crystal blue eyes.

He awaits an introduction but none is forthcoming. He begins to step back when he sees a sudden shift along the entire table.

“Ah.” Roegner’s face falls slightly. “You are just in time to meet my charming queen, it seems.”

Confused, Eist turns to look over his shoulder.

The sight that meets his eyes is like a battering ram, straight to his chest.

Now here is a lady befitting the House of Raven, he thinks. Dark hair and dark eyes, carrying herself with the kind of measure that screams her royalty long before her name is announced—in fact, she isn’t announced at all, yet the entire room shifts at her arrival ( _that_ , that is how one garners attention, he thinks, not by having someone else cry out their name and stamp a staff for attention—but to simply show up and command it, without demanding it). Her crown is blackened copper, beset with pigeon’s blood rubies that glitter almost dangerously in the warm light of the hall.

Her eyes widen, just slightly, for just a flash, but she never stutters a step as she breezes past, making a wide arc around the table to climb the dais and take her seat, at Roegner’s right hand.

“Apologies, your graces." Her voice is low, a bit breathless, and more than a hint sarcastic (though still just shy enough of it to thwart any accusation of such). She cuts back to Eist with a low, burning glance that is completely indecipherable.

“No apologies needed, your highness." He remembers himself, giving a bow of acknowledgment. “Any wise man would gladly wait a lifetime, to be rewarded with a glimpse of divinity.”

She doesn’t blush and twitter, the way most women do, when greeted with such a line. Instead, her lips merely curl into a smirk.

“Divinity?” There’s a low rasp to her tone, one that Eist has to lean forward to catch. “My, my, I did not know our island neighbors were so devout.”

“What gave me away?” He grins. He’s never been anything but unapologetically Skelliger, from his boots to his brow, but it’s always fun to hear the answers.

“The distinct smell of fish,” she returns, ever so sweetly.

He blinks hard at that. Roegner coughs, shifts in his seat.

“My wife thinks herself the court jester, at times.” He very pointedly doesn’t look at her, and there’s more disdain in that simple action than any sneer in her direction could be. “The dangers of marrying a woman who learned to be a soldier instead of a lady, I’m afraid.”

Calanthe blinks quickly, gaze shifting away. She still wears a serene expression, but Eist gets the distinct feeling that she may well cry.

However, she looks back at Eist again, smiling a bit too sharply. “And my husband thinks himself a master. The dangers of marrying a boy who spent most of his life sleeping in the barn with dogs, rather than leading soldiers into battle.”

A dig at the king’s humble beginnings and a slight brag on her own accomplishments. Eist has to slam his mouth shut to stop the wide, surprised grin. Still, she saw it—he can see the way her eyes smile, obviously pleased.

Roegner cuts her a quick, searing look. She holds his gaze, one brow slowly arching in challenge.

“Well,” Eist quickly breaks the tension, offering another bow. “I look forward to better knowing you both, over the course of the week.”

They both give small, stiff nods of approval, effectively dismissing him from the introduction.

Mousesack sidles up to him, once he’s no longer the focus of royal attention.

“The young princess is ill,” he explains in a low tone. As a druid, he can honestly say that little birdies do tell him things, but Eist knows the information he’s currently obtained is from a light wind spell, pulling bits of conversation closer to him so that he can more easily eavesdrop. He does this, at every court they attend—it’s what makes him invaluable, as a companion and an advisor. “She’s apparently a delicate, rather sickly thing. King Roegner is beloved of his people, the queen is…once favored, but now becoming an imposition to the king and the people at her lack of providing another heir, apparently. The woman to his left is his not-so-secret lover, from what I can gather.”

Eist now looks back over his shoulder, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. She’s fair of face, he supposes, but as mild as milk. What man would choose _that_ over the thing of dark looks and flashing teeth that had blown into the room, every inch a queen and still deadly as any knight?

Even now, the Lioness of Cintra is leaning in, speaking to the nobleman on her right. The corner of her mouth is hooking into a wolfish, almost-taunting grin as she continues regaling him with some tale, and he nods along vigorously, smiling in amusement at whatever she’s saying.

Eist would give a pretty penny to be sat in that man’s place, he realizes, his chest tightening.

Then, as if she can sense his gaze, the Lioness’ dark eyes flick across the room to him.

It’s like an arrow, straight to his heart.

She doesn’t miss a beat in her recitation, turning her attention back to her dinner companion. However, her left hand rises, fingertips lightly adjusting her earring and trilling along the thick mass of braids coiled into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck. Almost self-consciously, yet still somehow tinged with an air of exhibition, as if she knows beyond all doubt that he’s still watching.

“You know, she’s still quite young,” Eist comments, trying to keep his tone light, conversational. “It seems ages since the tale of the Lioness of Cintra.”

“She is your age, your grace,” Mousesack points out.

Seven and twenty, then, he realizes. Still, she does not even look that old. There’s something…almost fresh-faced and naïve about her, even with the kohled eyes and sharp smirks.

He looks back at Roegner's mistress. No, he can’t imagine needing or wanting something like that, when given the option to have Calanthe of Cintra.

He shakes his head slightly, trying to rid himself of his own thoughts as he turns his attention to the page, who is guiding them to a table of dignitaries.

The queen disappears several times during the evening. Eist wonders mildly at it, but no one else seems to notice or mind. Finally, once Eist has stayed long enough to fulfill any cordial expectations as a guest, he takes his leave of the king, citing the long journey as his reason for retiring so early to his chambers. He feels a small measure of dismay that the queen is absent from the table, yet again.

The Cintran castle is a bit too indistinct in its design—or maybe that’s intentional, to confuse would-be invaders. Every hallway and corridor is a near mirror-image of the other, and after so many weeks among so many castles, Eist realizes that he cannot easily find his way back to his rooms.

He's nearly convinced himself to return to the feast (if he can) and enlist the aid of a page when he rounds the corner and spots her.

The queen is leaning against a pillar in an open colonnade, staring out at the night with the same kind of glassy-eyed exhaustion that he always feels at functions like this.

He makes his steps a bit louder as he approaches, not wanting to startle her.

She looks up, almost numbly. Again, there is some fleeting, unreadable shift in her expression, quickly replaced by a mask of indifference.

“Ah, my devout neighbor,” she drawls. She’s attempting to be coy, but the fatigue threading through her tone dulls its edge.

“My divine neighbor,” he returns with a slight tilt of his head. He gets the sense that she’s not one for full bows and shows of obeisance, not in private. Dryly, he queries, “Shall I stand upwind, so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities?”

She gives a light huff at that, dipping her head slightly. She crosses her arms over her chest and turns her gaze back to the view outside the colonnade—a beautiful walled garden, one story below, with a long, shimmering pool stretching down its center.

Cintra was built upon the remnants of an abandoned elven palace, he remembers. The architecture gives credence to such claims.

Her voice breaks the stillness, “If you’re searching for an apology, look elsewhere. I coddle my sick child, and no one else.”

“I don’t believe in apologizing for humor,” he informs her. She blinks and looks at him, as if surprised. He adds, “Trust me, I have heard far worse—and far truer—things said about me.”

There’s a brief flash of understanding, a quick tightening around her dark, expressive eyes. But again, it’s gone before Eist can truly be sure of it at all.

He changes the subject. “I am sorry to hear the princess is unwell.”

She shifts slightly at that, gaze going over her shoulder, back towards another corridor. He suddenly understands why she’s here—the princess’ chambers must be nearby. He also understands why she kept disappearing from the feast—she’s been coming back to check on Pavetta, despite the fact that she’s most likely surrounded by nursemaids and such, who can all take care of her quite capably.

“She will live. She always does.” Somehow, it sounds like a promise, a vow only a mother could make.

He nods, believing her entirely. Her conviction is overwhelming.

“You are far from the feast and your chambers, Eist of Skellige,” she points out. Noting his surprise, she gives a slight smirk, “Don’t flatter yourself, good sir. I have nearly forty delegates and attachés invading my castle on a supposed peace council—do you honestly think I don’t know exactly where each of them is staying, in my own home?”

A valid point. And Calanthe does not seem like the type to not know every detail about any matter that happens under this roof.

Even what happens between her husband and the fair-haired girl at the table. The realization hurts Eist more than it should, he thinks.

So again he steers to safer waters, ducking his head slightly. “In truth, your highness, all these hallways look the same to me. I've been utterly lost for a good quarter of an hour, at least.”

She smiles wryly at that. Her eyes turn upward, scanning the arches overhead as if seeing them for the first time. “Yes, I suppose to the untrained eye, they do seem all the same.”

She pushes off the pillar, slipping past with a barely audible, “Come.”

He follows, a bit mesmerized—the moonlight slipping between the pillars catches the beading on her gown, making it ripple like the waves at night. Granted, it isn’t just a trick of the light—she's got a lovely set of hips, which also add to the pull and ripple of the fabric.

He thinks back to what Mousesack told him at the feast—Calanthe is falling out of favor for lack of heirs. But a king with a mistress can’t be trying too hard with his wife, can he?

Damn his mind for thinking that if his wife looked like this, they'd have a whole pack of dark-haired brats. Or they'd be trying often enough to have warranted them, even if none were forthcoming.

Absolutely not what he should be thinking, about a queen and a potential ally—one who is quite solidly married, at that.

All the hallways still look identical, but she navigates them without a moment’s hesitation. Though in his defense, she has spent her entire life here, whereas he only arrived this afternoon, just in time to bathe and dress for the feast.

The silence between them isn’t uncomfortable, but he'd much rather hear the sound of her voice. “Will you attend the council, tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she says airily. Then, with a bit more breezy sarcasm, “At my good husband’s pleasure, of course.”

As much as he has admired Roegner for being a man of the people, this is the first time he’s considered what it meant to Calanthe. The Lioness of Cintra, raised from birth to rule, crowned at fourteen, battle-proven at fifteen—all to hand it over at seventeen to a man who'd never even dreamed of such a role, much less genuinely prepared for it.

It must gall, he thinks. It galls him and he barely knows the woman, certainly doesn’t know all the intimacies of how much she has given up, in the name of tradition and expectation, two things he’s never held much favor with _._

He suddenly feels an urge to apologize, but is rather certain that she will not appreciate the hollow act.

So instead, he merely says, “Thank you.”

She stutters into a small sidestep at that, looking over her shoulder at him in obvious confusion.

“For shepherding me safely back." He motions down the hall.

She grins at that. Even in the darkness, there’s a sharpness to it.

“Just trying to keep the smell of fish contained to one specific area of the castle,” she informs him. He laughs softly. Pushing just a bit more, she adds, “Besides, I can’t really have a Skelliger freely roaming the halls unattended.”

“I never pillage after a feast." He holds up one hand, as if swearing an oath. “It’s always best to ransack on an empty stomach and a clear head.”

She huffs at that, obviously amused—and maybe a bit delighted that he can snark back, he thinks ( _hopes_ ).

“We’ll be sure to keep you well-fed and half-drunk,” she promises.

He grins again—only to realize he hasn’t actually stopped smiling for this entire bit of banter. The Lioness lives up to her name, just as quick and clever and cutting as she was promised to be. A rarity, Eist has found—most royals and other persons of near-legend almost always fall short of the mark set by rumor and ballad. If anything, she delivers above.

Granted, he is a bit biased, a bit overthrown by those dancing dark eyes and odd, quick-shifting moods. She bites, she retreats, she side-steps, she lunges, she laughs—it’s fascinating to watch, and yet again, he finds himself wishing that he somehow warranted a seat at the high table, even if only for a night. He’d stay until the feast was done with, he thinks, if he had her as a dinner companion. She certainly wouldn’t allow for a dull moment.

They turn down another corner, and she glances up at the ceiling, face suddenly lit by the row of torches lining the hall, skin going from a cool silver to a warm golden shade under the firelight (yes, they must be in the wing reserved for all the visiting dignitaries, since there are lights here, he realizes). Quietly, she intones, “The ceilings. That’s how you tell the corridors apart.”

He has to drag his eyes away from her neck (it’s quite long, quite lovely when her head is tilted upwards) to look up as well. Along the edges of the ceiling, there’s a delicate, barely-noticeable frieze, an intricate series of braids and knots.

“Each section has a different design,” she says softly. There’s almost a sense of wonder, a reverence in her tone. He feels that perhaps for the first time, she’s showing a genuine emotion, something that isn’t carefully filtered and crafted to some kind of expectation. “It is quite truthfully the only difference between most of these corridors, and if it isn’t well-lit enough, you can’t tell at all.”

He hums softly. So it is a design choice specifically to make it harder to navigate for outsiders, he realizes. For some reason, he feels the need to keep his voice low, almost reverent as well, “That detail will come in handy when I come back to pillage and ransack with my equally fish-scented colleagues.”

She grins at him, and there’s something almost-darling, almost-innocent about it. Then it mutes back to something more affected, something a little less genuine. She arches a brow. “Now, now, good sir. You surely don’t think that I forgot, even for a second, whom I was dealing with.”

He doesn’t, truthfully. She doesn’t seem the type to slip.

She starts walking again, this time backwards, so that she can level her gaze at him continuously, dangerous and playful at the same time. She gathers her skirts so that she doesn’t trip over the train of her gown, and there’s something lighthearted, almost flirtatious about the way she swishes them.

“The differences are extremely minute; you’d have to have spent years studying them to truly notice. Something far beyond the attention span and ability of fish-fuckers.”

He makes a low sound of surprise at the barb, and her eyebrows shoot up briefly, as if almost anxious.

“For the record, I haven’t fucked a fish in ages." He holds up a finger, as if defending a point.

She laughs at that—the first sound beyond a mere hum or huff he’s heard from her, and he loves it.

“And even then, only the very willing and eager ones,” he adds, making it sound like a true position of pride and honor.

She’s wearing an open-mouthed grin, as if she can’t quite believe that she’s stumbled on to him. She’s still walking backwards, at a much more leisurely pace, her stance slightly wider and steps a bit more careful as she navigates without actually looking—he can feel the way his own body slows, the way his own stance widens slightly as well, steps almost perfectly matching the cadence of her hips as she continues gliding along.

It’s as if she doesn’t want to look away, even for a second, and the idea of having this woman’s attention so fully makes his chest tighten.

“You will sit by me, at tomorrow’s council,” she decrees, with a sudden nod. Her chin lifts a bit, almost a challenge. “I do not care by what charge your brother sent you here—for the rest of the week, you are my sparring partner and my savior from what shall surely be a fuckfest of proud lords and little princelings pissing in the wind and claiming they create a hurricane.”

“I shall endeavor to be worthy of such an honor.” He holds his hand over his heart. He means it, more than his tone implies, and perhaps more than he should, given their circumstances.

Still, he cannot help himself. She grins in approval and even then, even in such a short acquaintance, he knows he’ll chase after that smile for as long as he is able.


	2. Learn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dordean and gothic_burrito, you got your wish <3

**Cintra, Early Fall 1243.**

Eist knows he shouldn’t stare. But he cannot help himself. He’s keenly aware that he’s missing part of the conversation happening at his own table, but he can’t fully pull his attention away from across the great hall, where Calanthe of Cintra sits at the high table.

The seat afforded King Roegner is empty, save for a large wreath of raven’s garland, its purple-black leaves nearly blending in completely to the dark navy cushions. At the top of the chair, a black sash, embroidered with golden lions. It isn’t quite the Cintran crest—in this one, the heads are bowed, rather than raised in triumphant roar.

The Lioness herself matches the imagery. She looks down at her plate, shoulders deflated, face devoid of expression. Her face is practically white, save for the dark circles under her eyes and the redness around her nose.

Her hands are by her sides; they haven’t risen to her plate or her goblet all evening. Eist can attest to that—because all evening, his gaze has hardly left her for more than a few seconds at a time.

As king, Roegner’s death warranted a great affair of state. Dignitaries from all over the continent had shown up to lay him to rest. Today there had been a long, mournful procession to the great sepulcher, and tonight, there was the final feast to usher his soul into the everlasting, with songs of praise and toasts of his good deeds—to be shouted loudly enough that the gods could hear, so they could weigh his soul and know it was worthy of honor.

As the Jarl of Skellige, Eist was expected to show his respects. But truth be told, he didn’t come for the king—he came to see the queen, to see what little comfort he could offer in this painful time.

He hasn’t seen her in over a year. There had been the peace conference, early in the spring last year—it had been an absolute delight, even if it was inconclusive in completing its aim. Yes, several solid treaties were struck, and Skellige walked away with a few more alliances—Eist fulfilled his role and his charge, and he was glad of it, for his brother’s sake. But the best part of it all was simply getting to better know Calanthe of Cintra.

She’d held true to her word, and managed to always take a seat at his side. She was rather adept at making asides out of the corner of her mouth, barely shifting in his direction yet casting her voice so that only he could hear it—and he was delighted by all her caustic comments and dry quips, returning with a few of his own and delighting further at the way she’d arch a brow or hum lightly in agreement.

By the third day, they could merely look at each other, no words needed. Then they’d share a secret smile and continue on.

On the fourth day, he’d gotten into a heated debate with the emissary from Kerack on the subject of port tariffs. She’d watched the exchange with rapt fascination. Afterwards, when the talks had finally concluded for the day, she’d elbowed him lightly: _Walk with me. Tell me more_.

He’d obliged. They spent nearly two hours discussing the minutest vagaries of port taxes and how it affected trade. While he wasn’t surprised at her intelligence, he was slightly shocked to realize that she already understood most of what he was describing—most royals only knew enough about a subject to understand its surface value (after all, that’s literally why they had advisors, who specialized in each field and whose expertise allowed them to make the best suggestions for the crown, based upon it), and very few could truly hold their own during an in-depth discussion of it. But she was quick and sharp, processing new information easily and following up with questions that proved just how well she understood.

He’d also like the idea that, even with all the playful sparring and snarky asides, they could still have deep, important discussions. The kind true allies are supposed to have. He wasn’t sure why having such a well-rounded connection was important to him, but it was, nevertheless.

It also didn't hurt that, even in the midst of such mundane conversation, there was still a distinct simmer to the air. The way she watched him raptly, the way he felt his skin tighten at the reality of once again being the sole center of her focus, the way he barely caught the flickers of her gaze, when it flitted to his shoulders or his neck, the mind-blowing possibilities of what those little stolen glances could imply. The way he found himself doing the same, the way his eyes were unable to leave hers, the way the afternoon breeze blew a wisp of hair across her cheek and made his entire chest ache with the desire to simply reach up and brush it away, because it would give him excuse to touch her, the way he also mourned a little when she tucked the wisp behind her ear and he could no longer watch it dance over the curve of her cheek, doing what he could not dare.

Two months later, he received a series of missives from the crown of Cintra. Signed in Roegner’s hand, but somehow holding every signature of Calanthe. A new set of tariffs, designed to increase trade and further encourage Skelligen ships to use Cintran ports. He could see where she had taken his views into consideration, and he didn’t mind too terribly at the points where she had not, because she’d made it clear in their previous discussion why she simply couldn’t allow them.

Bran and the jarls had all been surprised—it was the best offer they'd seen from any continental authority.

_So Cintra can be wooed_ , the Jarl of Clan Drummond had mused, after Eist had been unable to stop himself from making it clear that Calanthe was behind these overtures. There had been a few chuckles—after all, Eist Tuirseach's reputation as a ladies' man was well established.

_Cintra can be reasoned with_ , Eist had returned sharply. _Like any king with a good head on his shoulders_.

Bran had looked at him with the kind of smile that all dread to see from their siblings. After, when it was just the two of them, Bran noted _, I hear Cintra is quite the beauty_.

_Aye_ , Eist had shrugged, not able to deny it but also dreading how this honesty may damn him.

Instead, Bran had merely smiled again.

Somehow, that had made him decide to propose a union between Eist and the Jarl of Hindarsfjall—a striking woman and a powerful political alliance to be sure. But Eist had still been confused as to why Bran would even suggest it.

_Cintra_ , Bran said, as if that explained everything. _You came back changed, after your visit. I thought you’d finally seen the value of a good ally, of a good wife._

He had. But he'd also understood that he'd only seen it in one woman—a growing ally to be sure, but already a wife to someone else.

Still, he went to Hindarsfjall and tried to spend a week wooing the jarl. They knew each other from their raiding days, ages before—but they'd never tried their hand at anything more than allies-in-arms.

He tried. For his brother, he genuinely tried. The jarl was prettier than he'd remembered, and impressive with a double ax, and blessed with good humor and wit.

But she was no lioness.

He realized that it didn’t matter if Calanthe was forever unattainable—until he felt that kind of connection again, he wouldn’t settle for anything less.

Now he thanks his former self for committing to such a choice.

Not that this is the time or the place to think about such things, he reminds himself, once again taking in the tired lines of Calanthe’s face.

He hasn’t had a chance to speak to her since his arrival, but her grief has been palpable, even at a distance. His heart aches, seeing her pain—and not just hers. Little Pavetta is seated beside her, looking even smaller than her almost-nine years. She didn’t inherit her mother’s coloring, surprisingly, and her delicate features speak to the rumored elder blood that runs through the Cintran line. Her little face is pinched and puffy from crying, although right now, she sits, perfectly straight and somber faced, her grown-up demeanor somehow only highlighting just how much of a child she still is.

He remembers the final night of the peace conference, when Pavetta was well enough to attend the feast. How adorably focused she looked, hurrying along behind her mother's train, tiny hands clasped in front of her and perfectly mimicking the set of Calanthe's shoulders, though she couldn't quite get her pacing right to truly copy her mother's stride. Eist had immediately adored the little serious-faced girl.

It hurts, seeing her like this now. Not for the first time today, he wonders at how this small, sickly child did not contract the plague that took her father. Prays she never does. 

Pavetta suddenly dips her head, shoulders jerking upwards as she curls into herself slightly. Her face crumples into tears.

Now, Calanthe’s tired trance is broken. She shifts, pushes her seat back enough to turn and wrap her arms around her daughter. Then, after a beat, she rises to her feet, hauling the child up with her. Pavetta counters, wrapping spindly, stockinged legs around her mother’s hips as if she’s still a toddler instead of an eight-year-old, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.

Calanthe isn’t a slight thing in the least, but even Pavetta seems too big for her frame—yet she moves as if it isn’t any bother at all, navigating from between their chairs, around the high table and down the shallow steps, through the length of the great hall.

A few people move forwards, as if to help, but they all step back at Calanthe’s quick clip and determined gaze, which is focused on the entrance to the hall. Eist isn’t even sure that she registers the other people. Her only concern is her child, and getting her someplace quieter and safer.

A lioness in all regards, he thinks.

He wants to race after her, but he won’t set tongues to wagging. And he knows that even if he waits a few minutes and slips away, there’s no way in hell that he can actually find his way to Pavetta’s chambers—last time had been entirely a fluke and he’s fairly certain he couldn’t repeat it.

“Poor thing,” someone at the table comments. “Tis a hard thing, losing a father at such a wee age.”

Another guest hums in agreement. Then in a wryer tone, adds, “I’m actually surprised the queen is as shaken as she is. One would think she’d be dancing on his grave.”

“Too busy wading through all his bastards, more like,” the first returns, with a shake of their head.

Eist presses his lips into a thin line. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before—Mousesack brought him plenty of information of the sort, when they were here last year. He knew the measure of King Roegner, clearly enough. Apparently the king spent the last eight years of his life sowing seed far and wide—and a few fertile fields yielded up children, mostly girls, and mostly only rumored as his bastards, as their alleged mothers often went to stay in the country for a few months, and their near-kin suddenly had a new child in their family, shortly thereafter. Nothing is confirmed, but it’s a familiar dance and everyone knows the tune.

From what Mousesack had gathered from those closer to the queen, it didn’t seem to truly bother Calanthe. And despite their occasional bouts of bickering and sniping, apparently, the king and queen were on amicable terms most of the time—friends, of a sort.

Calanthe’s level of grief implied that there was a closeness between them. Though Eist is certain some of her pain is for her daughter, understandably.

Even now, he feels a slight wash of incredulity towards the former king. The man had to have been a bit soft in the head, he thinks—given the miraculous chance to be the center of Calanthe's adoration and affection, Roegner had chosen to chase courtiers and simply...be amicable allies instead of passionate lovers? He knows that's generally the way of royal marriages, but ye gods, most royal marriages don't involve a woman with eyes like night and a mind like fire. And yes, he knows that Calanthe might have contributed to that sense of separation as well—but again, he thinks Roegner couldn't have tried too hard to win her over, if he spent so much time bedding other women. Had Eist been granted the good fortune of an arranged marriage to Calanthe, he would have extolled as much effort as necessary to gain her affections (and even now, he thinks of that afternoon in the garden, talking about tariffs, the fluttering gazes she sent his way, and he thinks, perhaps, it wouldn't have taken too much effort at all—but perhaps he's deluding himself, and either way, now is not the time for such thoughts).

The minutes pass and Eist now actively tries to avoid hearing the conversation at his table. He’s never been one for gossip, but he finds it even less tolerable when the subject is the Queen of Cintra.

Finally, the doors to the great hall open again, and Calanthe returns, looking somewhat more put-together. He thinks of the first time he saw her, entering the room, all fire and glittering robes and flashing crown. She’s truly a raven now, decked in all black—this time, her mourning robes seems to absorb all the light, rather than shimmer under it, and even her crown of blackened gold beset with dark orange tourmaline doesn’t catch the light, almost blending in completely to the dark braids that wreath around her head in an intricate series of knots and twirls. She’s embers, not fire.

And this time, she seems to hesitate, as if keenly aware of the attention she already commands and desperate to shirk away from it. An advisor approaches her, ale stein in hand, and leans in to whisper in her ear.

There’s a flutter of shock across her face, then something deeper, more pained. Still, she takes the drink and strides purposefully towards the center of the room.

“To Roegner!” She holds up the stein, taking a second to level it in the direction of his former seat, where the wreath of raven’s garland still lies. “A goodly king, and a true prince of his people. An honest man and a valiant one. May he be welcomed into hallowed halls with highest honor.”

Everyone cheers. The Cintrans pound their steins along the wooden tables in agreement. The guardsmen at the door bang their breastplates. The room is thunderous with approval.

Her chest catches, likes she’s been stabbed, though no one but Eist seems to notice. Her face isn’t sorrowful. It’s deathly pale, and she looks as if she may retch all over the floor. Still, she stares at the place her husband once sat, as if looking upon a ghost and fearing it will never leave.

Eist suddenly understands that he doesn’t understand her at all. She isn’t grieving—she hasn’t been, this whole time. Whatever emotion she’s feeling, it’s far darker, far more complex.

She doesn’t drink to her own toast. Again, no one else seems to notice.

She stands in the middle of the hall, almost swaying, as if she’s barely able to stand. Another lord jumps to his feet, garnering the attention of the room as he begins a toast.

Again, everyone else cheers and pounds the table and drinks.

Calanthe of Cintra stares ahead, glassy-eyed and pale.

More toasts follow. Then stories. Eist keeps his gaze on the queen, who finally slips to the edge of the hall, once scrutiny is firmly away from her. Cautiously, she sets her stein upon the nearest table.

He gets the sense that she only came back to start this particular section of the mourning ritual. She has no need for the rest, no need for the comfort of memory or even the numbing embrace of Cintra’s infamously strong ale.

She continues edging further back. She catches the eye of the advisor who first brought her the ale. She merely ducks her chin, almost a half-nod. The advisor seems to understand. He gives a slight bow, and turns back to the proceedings.

With that, Calanthe disappears behind a tapestry.

Eist is on his feet in a flash, quickly cutting around the room while trying not to draw attention to himself.

As suspected, the tapestry covers a hidden entry way, mostly used by servants. Thankfully, it starts in only one direction—he plunges on ahead and hopes that he can make up the distance before losing her entirely in this labyrinthian castle.

He rounds a corner and nearly runs straight into a blade, a sharp Cintran dagger, right below his adam’s apple—and on the other end, the darkest pair of eyes he’s ever seen, glittering with such ferocity that he takes a step back.

Her expression blossoms in surprise, when she registers that it’s him. But the blade stays up.

“What do you want, jarl?” She asks.

“To—to make sure you were alright.” It sounds absolutely stupid, he knows, and he inwardly cringes as the words leave his mouth.

“Alright.” She processes the word. Then lowers the blade, swallows thickly. “No, I’m afraid I shan’t be _alright_ for quite a while. Perhaps the rest of my life.”

He knows the shock must be evident on his face at the pronouncement. She notes it, gives an odd, off-kilter laugh that holds neither mocking nor mirth.

“I’m already far recovered from the death of my good lord and king, if that’s what you’re asking,” she informs him. This does nothing to actually answer his question—it only creates a dozen more, which he knows he’ll never outright ask.

She takes a beat to watch him, as if gauging his reaction. Then, quietly, she announces, “I’m glad he’s dead. My only wish is that I had gotten to him, before the plague had.”

He blinks hard at that—at the sheer whiplash of her moods and words, at the hostility he feels radiating off her in waves and the undercurrent of hurt pulsing just below it.

The corner of her mouth hooks into another smirk—again, there’s no mirth, none of her usual playfulness. “Have I shocked you, good sir?”

He doesn’t answer. Isn’t sure how best to, how to diffuse the anger building inside her. Still, it seems answer enough. She gives a small nod, “Good. Now at least someone knows some measure of my suffering.”

He tries to make sense of her words. His mind plays over the conversation at his table, during the feast—is this over one of Roegner’s bastards, perhaps? It doesn’t seem likely, but then again, none of this does.

“I’m sorry.” He finds himself saying, holding out his hands is a gesture of defeat. “I didn’t wish to vex you further. I merely…”

What? He thinks to himself. What reason did he have, following her here? What did he want from her, for her?

“What?” She echoes his inner thoughts, taking a step closer. “You merely _what_ , good sir?”

He realizes that she puts more venom behind her _good sirs_ than she ever did when she called him a fish-fucker or any other negative epithet she used during their time together, last year. It’s an interesting juxtaposition—curses are compliments, and vice versa, in the tongue of Cintra.

“Merely wanted to offer your condolences?” Her tone is breathily patronizing as she cocks her head to one side, eyes wide with feigned and mocking curiosity. Obviously, she’s heard the line quite a lot, in the week since her husband’s death. “To reassure me of the goodwill you held for my _esteemed_ husband and _all_ the good he did upon this blessed earth?”

Somehow, even in this light and lilting air, it seems as if she’s screaming, ripping her lungs raw with emotion. He wonders dumbly at how she does that, how one singular voice simultaneously carries two opposing tones and pitches.

There’s the rub, he realizes. Roegner hurt her, somehow. And she hates that she now has to listen to people heap his praises atop her head.

He understands the scene in the great hall now, too. She had to raise her glass and spout words that felt like knives upon her soul. Had to listen to more of the same, from others. Had to fight the urge to scream and rail. Had to finally run away from it all.

“No condolences,” he states in a low tone. She blinks, surprised. He takes a gamble on honesty, “I did not come to say farewell to the king. I came to see to the state of my ally.”

He doesn’t call her friend. For all the fun they had last year, they aren’t that—he knows she’d be insulted if he suggested such.

“The King of Cintra was your ally,” she breathes. Still, something has shifted. She seems less like a coiled sea snake, ready to strike.

“Cintra is my ally,” he corrects gently. He takes a beat to look at her. “And it was not the king who extended the first branch of peace between our countries. Or took such pains to encourage better relationships between them.”

Her eyelashes flutter at that, caught out. She looks down, as if both embarrassed and perhaps slightly pleased. She doesn’t deny what he already knew—Roegner had no hand in establishing fairer tariffs at Cintran ports, at creating incentives to help Skelligen merchants find better trading posts along the coast.

He takes a step closer, “I cannot even begin to imagine the situation you’re in—”

She gives a wry, mirthless huff at that.

“—but I do know that I would gladly do whatever you needed, to help you through it.” And gods above, he means it, with every ounce of his soul. If she needs to rage and screech, then he’ll listen. If she needs to cry, then he’ll hold her. If she needs to get drunk and bang on about the various types of birds used for hunts (a subject she oddly has extensive knowledge about, he’s learned) and pretend as if none of this is real, then by the gods, he’ll round up the ale himself.

However, one look at her face informs him that she’s mistaken his intent. Her eyes widen, for the briefest flashes, so quickly that he isn’t sure he saw it at all. Then she takes a step back, drawing her gaze down the length of his body with an appraising air.

The corner of her mouth hooks into an almost-feral grin, “While I’m sure you _would_ gladly do whatever I needed, good sir—and do it quite well, I’m certain, too—I’m afraid I’m not seeking that type of comfort this evening. Or any evening in the near future, for that matter.”

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, you _did_.” She takes a step closer, jutting her chin out defiantly. She’s so close now, he can clearly see each and every vein in her bloodshot eyes. “Tell me, why else would you follow me down some dimly lit passageway, with profusions of allyship and an insistence that you _certainly_ didn’t come here to honor a dead king?”

She makes the last bit seem like a crime. Like perhaps he came here specifically to _dishonor_ Roegner—by bedding his newly-made widow.

He feels a flash of anger. “I had no intention of—”

“Easy to say that now, in the face of a refusal. But tell me—would that intention have held, if I had said yes?” Her tone turns silky, one brow arching.

“You never would have said yes,” he returns easily, filled with absolute conviction. “You are not that kind of woman—just as I am not that kind of man.”

She steps back, as if he’s physically slapped her. Somehow, he’s less surprised now that Calanthe of Cintra could look so stricken at a compliment, as if it’s a vile slander.

“Oh, jarl,” she breathes, shaking her head slowly. For some reason, the odd radiating fury is building again. “You have _no idea_ what kind of woman I am.”

She takes two more steps back—it’s so oddly reminiscent of their first night, it nearly hurts. She wags a finger at him.

“But you will learn,” she promises, sharp smile and shaking voice. “You will learn.”

The blade disappears back into the billowing folds of black and she levels one last burning look at him—somehow both a taunt and a warning not to follow her—before turning curtly on her heel and disappearing further down the passageway.

He stands there for quite a while after she’s gone, still trying to decipher what just happened. Finally, he returns to the feast, where a bard is singing the song of a fair young knight who vanquished a mighty lioness. The imagery is heavy-handed and Eist rolls his eyes at the descriptions of the lioness’ sweetly-lidded eyes and honey-soft smiles, fully tamed by the god of love.

Her eyes are sharp and quick and burningly beautiful. Her smiles even more so. Tamed? Nay, she’s never come close to it. And he prays she never does.

Once they’re back in the privacy of Eist’s chambers, Mousesack reveals all that he overheard at the feast. Apparently, despite there being a requisite period of mourning to observe, the Lioness has already been beset with no less than four offers of marriage. A duke from Verden seemed particularly keen—there seems to be rumors of a foiled plot to have the queen abducted and taken to his castle. Eist growls at the mere thought. It’s a barbaric practice, one that Skellige dealt away with ages ago, thank the gods.

It explains the blade she pulled on him, he thinks. It also makes the duke’s attempt even more laughable. Even if he were successful in capturing Calanthe of Cintra, he’d never survive her, that is for certain. Though she’d probably have him begging for death, long before she finished with him.

Again, he thinks of the unbridled rage he felt from the woman, as palpable as the heat of a flame against his skin. _You have no idea_.

Heaven help him, he also recalls the way she looked at him, when she thought he was offering physical comfort for the evening. The sudden heaviness to her gaze, the slow, burning rake of it. Somehow, he got the distinct impression that she’d only done it for show, to make him feel unbalanced and off-kilter—because that’s not how a lady looks upon a man, even if she does favor him. It was direct and aggressive, a show of dominance if ever there was one. And even if it was merely for show, it still was an entrancing sight.

_You will learn_ , her voice echoes again in his mind. It was meant as a warning, but he finds himself genuinely hoping that he does learn—to finally learn the true measure of this queen, without a lord and master to reign over her.

The Lioness of Cintra is about to truly unleash herself, he feels.

Still, she’ll need to be careful, when she does. After Mousesack leaves, Eist looks through his trunk. Finds the Skelligen dagger there. Polishes it, whets the blade to make sure it’s at its sharpest.

It’s a favored style of Skelligers, men and women alike—the blade is curved, a nasty piece of work to be on the wrong end of. It generally fits nicely under a man’s arm, easily hidden. For the women, when strapped to the chest, it follows the curve of the breast, and when strapped to the waist, it does the same with the line of the hip, usually.

He holds the blade up, mentally tries to gauge its fit against Calanthe’s form. Yes, she could wear it either way, beneath her corset or more openly at her hip—always there, always ready.

It isn’t a fancy thing. Not inlaid with jewels or encased in an enameled sheath and beset with filigree, like most Cintran blades ( _ivory_ , the blade she held to his throat tonight had a handle and sheath of ivory sealed with gold). Its sheath is sealskin leather, and there’s a thin strap to keep it in place, wherever one might choose to place it.

He puts the blade back in its sheath, winds the strap around it. Takes a piece of parchment, writes four simple words upon it.

He hopes it’s enough to convey the apology that he can’t quite give (both because he isn’t entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, and because he senses that she wouldn’t read it, wouldn’t accept it), enough to convey the forgiveness he feels towards her for whatever wounds she tried to inflict in the haze of her own pain, enough to signify his support of her, as an ally.

He looks at those four words, and while he meant them as a gesture of encouragement for her, he realizes that it is also a prayer of his own. It’s a wish he’s felt, all evening, surrounded by all these rumors and false ballads, which sought to constantly paint this woman as something less than the mighty thing she is.

_May the world learn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jarl of Hindarsfjall bit is also mentioned in the series A Summer in Cintra (specifically "I Am Weak, My Love, I Am Wanting", and "The Red Sky at Dawn"). So...technically this story is a prequel to that entire series. But only loosely.


	3. Bullseye

**Cintra. Spring, 1244.**

It’s been over half a year since he’s seen her, but he knows by now that his gift was well-received. He’d returned to Skellige the next morning, without seeing her before his departure.

For nearly three months, he wondered what her reaction had been—or truly, if she’d even received the gift at all.

Then, as winter truly began to grip the islands, by some miracle a raven arrived from across the half-frozen sea.

The Queen of Cintra was extending an invitation to Skellige—for the spring, when the treatise drawn up two years prior would be restructured and ratified by all the concerned parties, as agreed upon during the first conference.

At the bottom of the letter though, an additional note: _The Queen expects a full accounting on the Skelligen style of blade making, to be discussed with her blacksmith_.

She’d gotten the blade—and found it pleasing enough to want to know more. He was reminded of their talk on tariffs. Whenever something interested her, she had to pick it apart, to understand it from the barest beginning all the way to the most complex completion.

It seemed like an invitation of a different sort. An invitation towards friendship, at least. He was glad of it. He’d realized, after leaving Cintra the last time, that he already felt bereft at losing what little rapport they had. To have at least that back would be a blessing.

Now he sets foot on the docks at the royal port, looking up to the shining city on the hill and feeling a mixture of dread and anticipation in his chest.

“Your lordship,” a voice catches his attention. It’s a young man, obviously in service to the queen, given his robes and the emblem of the lion embroidered upon them. The stranger motions to a small cart, already awaiting his trunks. “I am to bring you to the castle, sir.”

Eist blinks at that. Things have already changed. During Roegner’s reign, you simply made your own way to court. Then servants would be sent back to fetch your things from the ship, if you didn’t have means to bring them with you already.

This is far more controlled. Calanthe doesn’t wait to be told that she has guests, she _knows_ , from the moment they arrive. It also, quite pointedly, shows that the dignitaries arriving are still under her purview. They are welcome guests, but still guests in _her_ domain.

He smiles slightly. The world is already beginning to learn, he thinks.

Upon arriving at court, he is informed that the queen is currently entertaining a few guests who arrived last night. Eist feels a bit of a jealous tug at that, at the thought that if he’d come a day early, he might have had a chance to simply enjoy her presence without any political talk.

However, his jealousy is quickly muted when, less than half an hour later, another page comes to his door, informing him that the queen has heard of his arrival and requests his presence. He gladly goes.

The castle at Cintra has many little gardens and side yards, almost as confusing as its maze of corridors. Eist finds himself in one that runs in a long narrow strip, filled with moss instead of grass. There are two shooting lanes set up, with archery targets set at one end and a table of bows and baskets of arrows at the other. A few guests chat at the edge of the lawn, whilst the queen and some nobleman line up their shots.

The page wisely waits until after the arrows are released to interrupt. Eist is grateful for that. He can’t imagine that her reaction to being interrupted mid-shot would be particularly favorable.

She hits a bit wide of the mark anyways, and gives a little pout. He tries to fight down a smile. It’s one of those rare moments where she looks far younger than her twenty-nine years, and he always finds them adorable.

However, her pout turns to smile at the sight of him.

“Ah, the good Jarl of Skellige,” she drawls, in a tone that Eist has come to learn is her queen’s voice, for public settings. He’s learning that her voices, like her smiles, are as varied as the shifting winds.

But this is the clue he needs—it tells him how to approach her. He bows formally, using his own court voice, “The good Queen of Cintra. A pleasure to return to your gracious presence, as always.”

She tamps down a small smirk at that, and he feels a blossom of delight in his chest.

They are still able to have their usual rapport, then. The playful snark, the inward eyerolling at all the pomp and circumstance they must perform, because etiquette demands—the feeling of a shared secret between them, always.

“Come, take a bow and show us what Skellige can do with it.” She jerks her head in the direction of the table, her other shooting partner practically forgotten.

They walk over to the table, turning their backs on the rest of the company, finally afforded some privacy as Eist leans in, scanning over the assembled bows of various builds and sizes.

“I must admit, I sliced my thumb quite terribly, on that blade you left,” she says in a low tone. There’s admiration tinging her words. He notes that she says _left_ , instead of _gave_ , as if ignoring the fact that it was a gift entirely.

“I wanted it to be as sharp as possible,” he returns, voice just as low. “What use is a blade if it doesn’t bite?”

She hums at that. She cocks her head, indicating the bows, “Any good with one of these?”

“Only one way to find out,” he says breezily, selecting a bow. He takes a beat to make eye contact again, feeling another measure of victory at the way her eyes are dancing, so obviously delighted that he’s here, as if to save her from another round of tedium.

He likes the idea. Being the one that makes things more bearable for her. Even in matters as trivial as this.

He bows grandly, motioning back to the targets. She tilts her chin in a self-assured air, leading the way.

She gives a small sound of surprise when his first arrow lands close to the bullseye. He turns to see her looking at him with an air of appreciation.

“So fish-fuckers _can_ aim.” Her voice is filled with breathy surprise, eyes wide with feigned shock. Still, there’s something mischievous dancing at their corners.

He opens his arms a bit, accepting the grand compliment. “Spearfishing, your majesty. I simply imagined the bullseye was a sea bass.”

She grins at that. Then her gaze follows his form, as if truly taking stock. Quietly, she decrees, “Yes, I could see you hauling a spear.”

There’s a compliment in there, he thinks. More than anything, he just enjoys the idea that Calanthe of Cintra is imagining him, in any way, shape, or form outside their current roles.

He thinks of the last time she looked at him like this—except it wasn't like this, not truly. Last time, she'd been aggressive and almost-vengeful, her face still mottled from grief and her anger so overpowering that it had been terrifying to behold. While it had held some shade of desire, more than anything it had been about power, about making her point and taking one from him. This is warm and playful and still direct, even with a lawn full of onlookers. And this time, he realizes that it isn't a power play or a point to prove. She's looking at him like this simply because she _wants_ to.

He tries not to think too much about that last little realization. Still, he thinks, it's a rather nice image to hold on to.

They take arrows again, wait for the page to mark the original hits and remove the first round of arrows. After a few sets, Calanthe is determined as the winner, though barely. Heaven help him, Eist can’t help but love the way her face seems to glow with smug satisfaction.

Through it all, he understands what she’s doing. There are still other guests watching, and once their match is finished, she resumes her challenge with the previous noble. She beats him rather soundly, and Eist’s suspicions are confirmed.

She’s showing off her prowess, but not entirely for the benefit of her ego. It’s a simple message, but a clear one: Calanthe of Cintra is a born warrior, and she will conquer as easily in war as she does in games. This is her might, when she isn’t even trying, isn’t even vengeful or provoked to wrath. Look, and understand: this is but a small measure of what she can unleash, if tempted to.

Eist watches, finally giving up in his attempts not to simply grin as he witnesses her banter and snark, pausing only long enough to nock her arrow and take her aim, brows furrowing slightly before releasing. She still smiles and flits around, leading with her shoulders in a way that’s both graceful and somehow flirtatious.

Every time he returns to this castle, he’s greeted with an entirely new version of the queen. This one, he thinks, is absolutely sublime.

A prince joins their retinue, and it’s obvious that he’s setting out to seduce the queen. Overly obsequious, smiling far too much, heavy-handed in the compliments to her beauty. Still, Calanthe endures with a cool smile as they chat on the sidelines, letting another pair square off.

Eist is engaged in conversation with a duke from Lyria, though he keeps track of the queen, glancing up from time to time. She’s leaning in to her discussion with the prince, but it’s obvious that she’s being patronizing, though the prince doesn’t seem to catch on. It’s like she’s indulging a child, he thinks.

Then, once the other pair of archers has finished their round, he notices her motioning to the table. Obviously suggesting that the prince compete with her for a round.

The prince follows, and Eist can’t help but note that Calanthe puts more sway into her hips as she leads the way. The prince’s head ducks slightly, the focus of his gaze quite obvious (not that Eist truly blames him).

Eist would feel offended on her behalf, except he’s fairly certain that she’s doing it on purpose. At this angle, he can’t see her face, but he’s certain that she’s smirking smugly, well-aware of the effect she’s having.

His suspicions are confirmed when they line up at the marks again, nocking their arrows and taking aim.

For a brief flash, Calanthe glances over, straight at Eist. She lifts her brows, just a fraction.

_Watch this_ , she seems to be saying, the corners of her mouth curling into an already self-satisfied expression.

Perfect bullseye. There is a round of light clapping for the queen’s good aim. Calanthe turns to take another arrow, again, sparing a look for Eist.

They’re sharing a secret again, he realizes. He watches in rapt fascination.

Another bullseye. A ripple of surprise from the onlookers.

Eist Tuirseach suddenly realizes that, all this time, she’s merely been toying with them all. Intentionally hitting wide of the mark from time to time, just to make things interesting, to keep them all invested. Besides, it’s bad form to completely trounce every single guest, every single time.

At the third bullseye, there are outright cheers. She ducks her head, tamping down a grin. She turns back to the prince, offering some soothing comment and a charming smile. She moves to return her bow to the table—but just before she does, she sends Eist one last look.

_That’s how you deal with that sort of thing_ , the arch of her brow tells him. He ducks his head slightly, shaking it with a silent chuckle. He never lets his eyes leave her, though. She smiles again, this time genuinely—she’s pleased that he shares her humor, as always.

The little prince does not bother her, the rest of the afternoon—nor the rest of the conference, for that matter.

Queens are expected to mourn a full year, at the death of their king—she’s still bedecked in black from head to toe, as a constant reminder to all. Yet Eist realizes rather quickly that there are plenty who are more than willing to hedge their bets long before that.

Another nobleman slips into the place once filled by the prince. The conversation seems far more relaxed, though, and Eist is glad of it. He returns his attention to a countess from Strept and they have a rather pleasant exchange.

King Foltest arrives, and it is quite clear that the two have already been in contact—she's bright-eyed and eager, quickly leaving the afternoon affair after a short exchange.

They do not return. He later learns that they went out hawking, apparently a shared passion between them.

He cannot help himself from wondering if there are any other passions shared. Curses himself for it, yet cannot fully release the wonder, or the worry.

As a king, Foltest sits at the high table, beside the queen. The flirtatious prince from earlier sits at the table as well, though Calanthe quite pointedly pays him no mind.

After the food is served and the toasts are made, the room shifts, as usual. People gravitate to different tables, different sections of the hall.

The seat to Calanthe’s left is now open. She looks straight across the room, making it perfectly clear that somehow, she’s kept track of Eist’s movements—she makes a small motion with her hand, indicating he should come and sit.

He disengages himself from his current companions and make his way through the crowd. She still chats with Foltest, but occasionally sends a lazy glance his way, marking his progress.

Once he’s seated, she turns to him with an airy smile.

“Quite the day,” she comments, still oddly theatrical.

“Quite.” He agrees. She watches him a beat, expression feline and unreadable.

“I did not take my leave properly, this afternoon,” she notes, not sounding repentant in the least.

“You are queen, you need no leave granted,” he points out neutrally. There’s a game afoot, he can sense it.

She hums at that. Then adds, “I do so get swept away, with all King Foltest's little surprises.”

Ah, there it is. A taunt. A gauntlet, as it were, tossed at his feet.

“One cannot blame you.” He keeps his tone unaffected, non-committal. “After all, the queen’s affection for hawking is widely known.”

Her expression flickers in mild, albeit amused, surprise. She wasn’t expecting him to know her whereabouts.

“You’re rather well-informed, Eist Tuirseach.”

“A requirement for being a good jarl,” he explains.

Now she smiles. Like a cat who's found a mouse. “You are _such_ a good jarl, aren’t you?”

She’s practically purring, using the same patronizing tone one would use to praise a dog—and yet, he can’t help but detect the innuendo, and certainly can’t help imagining it in entirely different settings.

She continues watching him with a lazy, warm expression, underneath which lies a darker, more feral side waiting to pounce. “Always so well behaved. So…unaffected and polite. So _achingly_ civil.”

Here they are again, he thinks. She delivers compliments like mortal blows. He wonders why she finds his civility lacking—was she hoping that he would pout at her attentions being directed elsewhere? Did she want a jealous show?

It’s not in his nature, either way. And something tells him that to capitulate and dance to her tune would only disappoint her.

So he merely shrugs, “Civility comes easily when there is no attachment to a specific outcome.”

Her brows lift at that.

“Duly noted,” she breathes. Somehow, she seems pleased. After a beat she asks, “Will you sit beside me at council, tomorrow?”

“If you wish it,” he returns, keeping his expression and tone in check. His heart, however, is far less restrained in its reaction.

Now she smiles. He gets the feeling that this has all been some odd test.

She shifts in her seat, looking over the assembled guests with a casual air. “Oh, I wish a great many things, good sir. But your company as armament against the absolute tedium shall be enough to satisfy.”

Those words do not leave his mind for the rest of the night. He tries to unravel their meaning, their exact intent—because he knows her well enough now to know that she chose each and every word with absolute precision.

_A great many things_ …for herself, for these peace talks, for her nation? From him, from the rest of the conclave, from life in general?

He is, as always, left with far more questions than answers, when it comes to that woman.

Later, Mousesack tells him the gossip: Foltest is not a rival, at least not in terms of the queen's affections.

“He is…never married.” Mousesack raises his eyebrows pointedly. “And there are quite a lot of whispers surrounding the paternity of his sister’s unborn child.”

Ah. Yes, Eist suddenly recalls a few whispers he heard, during his visit to a year ago. And yes, he definitely saw some kind of connection between the two siblings that went beyond any closeness that he shared (or ever wanted to share) with his own sister.

He considers the amount of men circling Calanthe throughout the day—wonders how that will continue, for the rest of the week. She’s a prized pearl in a tank full of oysters, he thinks. Foltest seems to be the only one here who isn’t interested in wooing her, either for himself or some other royal heir. He just genuinely enjoys hunting and hawking as much as she, and apparently was eager to show off some new falcon he’d had brought over the mountains from some exotic locale.

Of course she would leap at the chance to indulge her favorite pastimes without having to worry about pussyfooting around yet another marriage proposal, Eist realizes.

Though he still gets the sense that she enjoys the fuss—or at least the discord it creates. She’ll never have to worry about the others forming an alliance against Cintra, if they’re at each other’s throats trying to win its queen.

Odd foreign policy, but effective.

He decides upon a policy if his own. He won’t be like the rest, either. He'll flirt when she flirts, step back when she snaps in warning, and offer no commitment to any outcome. He won’t ask for more unless she makes it clear that she wants to be asked.

The last time he was here, he'd jeopardized everything between them. Now he knows the value of her allyship—and hopes he will learn the value of her genuine friendship one day, too. While he certainly hopes there will be even more, he won’t wish it at the cost of her happiness and peace.

He listens to Mousesack detailing the schedule for tomorrow’s conclave, feeling some comfort in knowing it will be far less boring than it sounds, with Calanthe at his side.

_Your company as armament against the absolute tedium shall be enough to satisfy,_ her voice echoes in his mind. He nods again, this time agreeing with the pronouncement.

Perhaps if he repeats it to himself enough times, his heart will also agree.


	4. Melusine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit longer than usual, loves. But we got a lot to unpack <3
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos/comments/etc so far!

**Cintra. Late Summer, 1244.**

Granted, Eist Tuirseach has long since stopped viewing trips to the court of Cintra with dread. But this time, his delight is a bit richer.

There will be no peace conference, this time. No emissaries, no diplomatic meetings. No treaties to ratify, no terms to negotiate, no bargains to make.

No, this time, he’s going simply to enjoy himself. It is a few days of celebrations, leading up to Queen’s Day, the anniversary of Calanthe’s crowning on the Great Steps of the city—and this year’s celebrations seem larger, perhaps due to the fifteen-year milestone, perhaps due to the fact that she’s truly reigning on her own again, for the first time in thirteen years.

Either way, there is a grand tournament. Eist had been delighted at the invitation—he loves a good skirmish, and if he gets to enjoy that while showing off a bit for the queen, well, what harm is that?

They’d parted quite amicably, when he left the peace conference five months ago. As expected, she’d been a delight to sit beside, during the conclave. One memorable night, he’d even feasted at her table, and they’d enjoyed a good round of verbal sparring. He’s still inordinately proud of making her laugh so deeply at one quip that she literally had to hold her hand up, to stop him from continuing until she could regain her breath. Even in her black mourning robes, she’d shone like the sun, glowing cheeks and dancing eyes. She’d finally taken a deep breath, giving an airy, amused sigh as she fixed her gaze on him again and smiled in a way that cracked the whole world open.

In that moment, he knew beyond all doubt that the attraction he felt for her was mutual (though he’d long suspected). Still, he tried not to read too much into her coy quips and flirtatious airs—she used them like a weapon, often indiscriminately upon whomever crossed her path, quick-changing them for sharper barbs and unexpected verbal backlashes. She would figuratively have your shirt soaked with blood before you even realized that she had slit your throat, so sudden were her turns and twists.

Heaven help him, he enjoyed every moment of it. It was like watching a dancer, being in awe of their movement without ever truly being able to understand how they did it.

Of course, he isn’t the only one eager to return to Cintra, he soon realizes. He arrives at court to find the place crawling with high-born men from far and wide—all who, no doubt, hold the hope of becoming the queen’s champion in more than just a single tournament.

Calanthe is well aware of these hopes (she always is). She still has a full month before the first anniversary of Roegner’s death, and she isn’t the only one who can count.

And yet, she knows exactly how to stay just out of reach. When Eist arrives, he learns the queen has been out hawking, yet again. He heads to his chambers—with no queen to receive him, his next move is to prepare for the evening’s feast, where he will undoubtedly see her.

Fate seems kinder—as he follows a page around another corner, he spots the queen and her entourage, coming from the other end of the corridor.

“Ah, the good Jarl of Skellige,” she calls, obviously delighted. “I thought I caught the scent of brine and barbarian.”

He’s far used to her jabs now. He merely bows, not bothering to hide his smile. “The good Queen of Cintra. I should have known you were on the horizon—the earth trembled, ever so slightly, under your mighty step.”

She gives a slight arch of her brow, almost imperceptibly running her hands over her hips. She’s playfully asking if Eist is making a quip about her weight, but his eyeroll answers in the negative. She smirks at that—she’s well-aware of the cut of her figure, equally aware that few could offer complaint on it.

She’s still in black, but in a style better suited for summer. The neck and sleeves of her simple riding dress are high, but the material is sheer—the paleness of her arms and shoulders shift beneath, almost mesmerizing.

Numbly, Eist realizes he’s never seen her bare arms. As expected, there’s a lovely cut to them, from years of wielding swords.

He’s never gone hungry over a woman’s arms before. He finds it mildly amusing—there isn’t a bit of this queen that isn’t enchanting, he realizes.

“Will you walk on with me?” She breezes past, not even waiting for a reply. He turns on his heel and follows, quickly closing the gap between them.

“How were the hawks?” He asks conversationally. He’s personally never understood the appeal of birds, but he supposes it’s just another charming facet of her odd personality. Either way, he does like the look on her face when she speaks on subjects she loves.

“Divine,” she decrees lightly. “And we’ve a new crop of coursers broken in, so I got to test the paces on a few.”

Horses. Her other odd passion. Granted, Cintra is renowned for their horse stock, and they make a pretty penny, selling coursers and chargers to knights and kings across the continent.

While he has no desire to ride around with a bird on his wrist, he can admit that he’d love to watch her do it, if only for the sheer novelty of seeing her in such a setting. He knows how excited she gets simply discussing such activities—how much more would her eyes dance, would her cheeks glow, when actually experiencing them? He imagines that she’d be much like the sun. So bright and beautiful that it would be almost painful to look upon.

“And are the new coursers up to your exacting standards?” He drawls.

She huffs at that. They once had an argument over it—he maintained that a horse is simply a horse, and she was rather vehement in rebutting it. The argument was mainly for play, as he enjoyed teasing her and she, oddly enough, enjoyed being teased to a certain extent—though in the end, he’d conceded to her point, so she’d been able to feel ridiculously smug and triumphant.

“They will do, for some lowly knight-errant who has no true knowledge of horses,” she decides, giving a slight shrug.

He grins again. She’s a bit adorable, when she’s disdainful.

The doors to her private receiving room are opened and they go through. Her personal guards stay posted outside, but her two ladies-in-waiting continue on, through another set of double doors that lead to her bedchambers.

“Have you seen the lists yet?” She changes the topic without warning, as usual. Somehow, there’s something in her tone that tells him this is the real reason she asked him to walk with her.

He frowns slightly, trying to decipher the reasoning—she doesn’t try baiting him anymore, doesn’t try getting a rise of jealousy, not since the first night of the peace conference, when he made it clear that he wasn’t the jealous type, nor was he attached to any kind of outcome for their current relationship. She doesn’t play him against the others, and for some reason, it makes him think that it’s because she likes him more, respects him more.

“Quite a lot of names,” she continues, slowly circling the room as she removes her gloves and tosses them upon the chaise. “Even a few we have not seen before.”

“Oh?” He’s beginning to understand.

She unfastens the clasps of her hunting cloak, whipping it around to toss upon the chaise as well. “The Duke of Bremervoord being chief among the unknowns.”

Ah, now he completely understands. Bremervoord was a stop upon one of his many emissary tours for his brother. How Calanthe knows this, he isn’t sure—but he’s not surprised. The woman has ears everywhere.

She takes a beat to look at him fully, as if checking to make sure he understands.

“Bermervoord is not unknown to me,” he admits, confirming what she already knows.

“Tell me everything,” she commands, moving forward with a lazy swagger as she turns on her heel and walks on.

He hesitates, feeling a measure of uncertainty as she disappears through the other set of doors, into the queen’s private bedchamber.

He hears her footsteps halt. Then, tinged with amusement, her voice drawls from within, “Please do not waste my time, good sir.”

He ducks his head and follows. She’s standing before the foot of her bed, arm outstretched as her lady unties her sleeves, which have laces running up to her elbows.

He hears the sound of water, from a small side door on the other side of the chamber.

Noting his look, she explains, “It is customary to arrive at court functions _not_ still drenched in sweat and dirt from a day afield.”

Ah, yes, it was a rather warm day. He can see the sheen of dried sweat still upon her face.

She looks over her shoulder at him, mouth pressing into a line as if holding back a sigh of frustration. _On with it, jarl._

Calanthe of Cintra has a bit of a reputation for being a multitasker—a reputation well-earned, as he has seen it in action several times now. Her absolute aversion to wasting time is well known, too. He just hadn’t expected _this_ to be part of it.

Still, he answers the unspoken command, giving her the most concise rundown of the man’s character than he can manage.

By the time he’s finished, her dress is fully unlaced, hanging loosely on her frame. With a smirk, she drops her arms, letting it crumple in a heap at her feet.

She’s still wearing a corset and a sleeveless shift underneath, just as black as the robes that had been over them, still perfectly hidden from his gaze. Still, there’s a taunt, a challenge in her eyes. _Do you dare to look, good sir?_

He keeps his gaze firmly locked on her face. He’s seen far more of a woman’s form, even one as pleasing as this. He accepts the challenge, plays her game.

“There’s more,” she decrees, after a beat. Her dark eyes size him up. “Something you’re not telling me.”

He dips his head slightly in acknowledgment. Still, he assures her, “I have told you everything that is pertinent to your dealings with him, your majesty.”

She arches her brow at that. _Oh, so now you get to decide exactly what I should and shouldn’t know, do you?_

She’s a beautiful woman, he thinks. Even dripping with disdain, her features are captivating.

She turns with a heavy sigh, almost as if clearing her throat. It’s a guttural sound, the kind queens aren’t supposed to make. She unhooks her corset and breathes deeply once it’s opened. She continues moving towards the side door, not skipping a beat as she hands off the corset to her lady-in-waiting.

“Stay until I call you.” She raises her voice to be heard, disappearing into the next room entirely.

He’s not entirely used to being ordered around like one of her prized ponies—truth be told, he doesn’t particularly enjoy it. Still, he’s mildly fascinated. It’s like he’s stepped into some strange world, and he’s not sure he’s ready to leave just yet—not until he understands it better.

He glances around the room, seeking clues to the woman who inhabits it. There is a smaller hearth, with two chairs facing it. A surprising collection of books (she doesn’t seem the type to sit still long enough to read for leisure) in the corner. Behind him, there’s a wall of shields and banners.

One shield is smaller, obviously lighter than the others, even at a glance. It’s beaten to hell—there’s a distinct warp in the top left corner, as the edge had been punctured, bent back by a spear. It looks more like a child’s plaything than a weapon of war.

In the center, a golden lion, slightly askew, as if it had been hastily affixed by the blacksmith.

It’s nothing, compared to the larger, more ornate shields that follow along the wall, each heavier and more expertly crafted. Yet still, it hangs in pride of place, polished and maintained.

He hears water stirring. With a flash of understanding, he realizes it’s the sound of her body, slipping into a tub. There’s a low cadence of conversation, something too low to be properly heard, an exchange between her and another lady-in-waiting, who’d obviously drawn her bath.

Some shuffling noises, then the lady appears through the doorway, eyes a bit wide as she looks at Eist. She helps the other lady gather the rest of Calanthe’s things, then they retreat entirely from the bedchamber, closing the door softly behind them.

“Come in,” Calanthe calls, tone full of certainty that he will obey.

And he does, albeit a bit cautiously. Once he reaches the doorway, he realizes what he’d heard, before. There’s a screen between them, something to shield her from his gaze.

Idly, he wonders how many times it’s been used. Who else has stood here, listening to her bathe.

“Now.” The water ripples slightly, as if she’s sinking further in. “What haven’t you told me about this man, Eist of Skellige?”

He pauses, considers. “I don’t like him.”

A beat. She waits for more. When he doesn’t offer, she prompts, “And?”

“And that’s it. He’s never given me cause to mistrust him, but I always have. There’s something about him that doesn’t ring true, despite the fact that he’s always been good on his word and his actions have never been less than honorable.”

She hums at that. There’s a stirring sound, as if she’s dragging her fingertips over the top of the water.

Quietly, she admits, “I feel the same. Like you, I’ve never had cause for such feelings, but I feel them, nonetheless—and I haven’t spent a full five minutes in his presence, as of yet.”

He ducks his head in agreement, though she can’t see him.

More light splashes. She’s obviously scrubbing her body, now. He tries not to imagine what that looks like, wet skin turning pinker under her efforts.

“Does this bother you, jarl?” There’s something warm, almost teasing, curling around the edges of his title. A taunt, an invitation. “Being in my presence, like this?”

She enjoys making men uncomfortable. He’s long since realized that. Right now, he understands specifically that she feels more powerful, in this moment. She calls and he answers. She commands and he obeys. He keeps his gaze respectful while she presents the most brazen displays, daring him to break.

“I’m not sure how the sound of your voice is meant to bring discomfort,” he points out, playing the game. After all, that’s his only interaction with her, at the moment.

The water swirls again. He can tell that she’s moved closer, to the side of the tub that nearest him. He’s certain that she’s practically leaning over the edge.

“Aren’t you tempted to look?”

_Melusine_ , he thinks, almost numbly. It’s like encountering Melusine, the most powerful of sirens, the semi-divine being that his people once built shrines to. She’s tempting and divine and she’d absolutely eat his heart out, if he dared to truly play her game.

“I don’t look upon women unless they directly ask to be looked upon,” he returns easily. And it’s truth, pure and simple.

She hums warmly at that.

“A barbarian and a gentleman, my, my.” She’s trying to get a rise out of him, he knows. “What mythical creature have I found in you, dear jarl?”

He pushes down the wave of irritation. It’d bite more, if he didn’t notice the respect still running underneath her words. But he’s learning—what Calanthe says and what she means are hardly ever the same thing.

There’s a heavy, weighted pause. Then, voice barely a whisper, she says, “You can look, if you want.”

Again, it feels like both a test and a trap. So he merely dips his head, keeping his gaze firmly on the tiled floor. Just as quietly, he returns, “Is that what you want?”

He can almost physically hear the way she blinks at that. As if she never considered that he’d ask such a thing. He doesn’t know whether to be amused or saddened.

“Makes me no mind, either way.” She’s using her soldier’s voice now. Not as direct and imperious as her commander’s tone, not as soft and silky as her queenly one. Just brusque and unaffected. The water sloshes and pulls—she’s out of the tub completely now.

“That’s not the same thing,” he points out, once the sloshing dies down a bit.

She makes a small noise of acquiescence, allowing him the point. Even in that brief sound, he can hear her surprise.

She appears around the corner of the screen, a towel wrapped around her, covering from chest to knees. She brushes past him as if nothing is amiss, leaning out the door to call for her ladies once more.

Her neck and shoulders are bare, still dappled with drops of water. Her skin is flushed from the heat of the bath, little tendrils of hair plastered against her neck. Her calves are mesmerizing, flexing slightly as she leans out further, almost rolling up onto her toes as she calls out.

He’s staring, he knows he is. He’s unable to stop.

She looks back at him, as if surprised that he’s still here. “Well, off you go. I dare say you could use a bath yourself, before you join the night’s festivities.”

She’s turning over her left shoulder—it’s then that he notices the scar. Thick and shiny, webbing out like the tentacles of a jellyfish. It’s white, even while the skin around it is still pink from the heat of the bath.

And just over her right shoulder, far across the bedchamber, the little shield. The little shield, with the spear dent, just at the left corner.

He’s looking at a timeline, he suddenly realizes. Which means the small, crude shield is her first.

_Hochebuz_ , the answer blazes in his mind. The ballad told of the Lioness being pinned down, but rising triumphantly again anyways.

In theory, he knew she’d have battle scars. But seeing them in reality makes him pause. Her shoulders suddenly seem so inexplicably fragile. She’s twenty-nine now—he can’t imagine how much smaller they were, fourteen years ago, not even strong enough to carry a fully-weighted shield into battle.

She sees his gaze, her fingertips lightly ghosting over the area. It’s as if she’s just now realized their situation, realized just how much more of herself is showing—not just physically, he realizes.

Then she stands a bit straighter, fixing him with a stare that dares him to say something.

“Until this evening, your highness.” He bows slightly, taking his leave. He makes sure to give her a wide berth as he moves past, not wishing to intrude into her personal space any more than absolutely necessary.

His eyes fix on the shield again. It seems even smaller.

“And jarl?”

He stops, turning back to her. She’s watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Let us…remain, like this.” Her hand comes to her collarbone, fingertips swirling lightly against her skin. Her left shoulder is angled away, as if she doesn’t quite want him to look upon it again. “Honest, with each other. About how we feel, towards the rest.”

He nods, quietly agreeing, “As allies always should.”

She smiles at that—not the open, genuine way she did, the night he made her laugh so deeply. He leaves her chambers, with the distinct impression that the whole bathing scene had been staged, even if her scar produced a moment of accidental honesty. Again, he feels as if somehow, he’s been tested in some way.

And somehow, he has passed.

And, as he often does regarding Calanthe of Cintra's games, he wonders how exactly he should feel about it all.

* * *

The feast is—in Mousesack’s incomparably droll observance—an absolute cockfest. The queen smiles and graciously greets everyone who approaches her table after being publicly heralded. She chatters on happily with the guests at her table, though Eist gets the distinct impression that he’s watching a play, of sorts—none of this is for her own enjoyment, she’s merely acting a part.

And the higher-born guests eat it up. He inwardly rolls his eyes at their stupidity.

Finally, the hour becomes a bit late for Princess Pavetta, and predictably, Calanthe leads her out of the hall, disappearing for a while.

Eist watches the other men, all eyeing the door. Waiting to pounce. He feels a measure of disgust.

Calanthe enters, and this time, she doesn’t need gravitas to command attention—she’s got something far more alluring: a soon-to-be-open slot for the role of husband and king of Cintra, one of the most powerful forces on the continent.

Several men rise from their seats, coming to greet her. She smiles breathlessly, as if surprised and flattered (and again, Eist can sense it’s utterly feigned—she’s been dancing this particular waltz for nearly a year now, she knows the tune before it even begins to play).

Then, she looks over at Eist, eyes widening, just a fraction.

_Save me,_ they scream. _Save these poor men, lest I kill them with my bare hands._

He gladly obliges. Feels a measure of satisfaction for the way the tension in her shoulders ease, ever so slightly, when she notices him rise to his feet.

Still, she keeps her charm in full force, smiling and leaning in to offer a low barb to one suitor in particular. He blinks and the others laugh at her quip. She smirks, obviously pleased.

“Your highness.” Eist bows stiffly, garnering the attention of the small group.

“Eist of Skellige.” There’s a slow surprised drawl to her tone, as if she’s only just realized that he’s here, as if she hasn’t seen him at all since his arrival, as if they didn’t exchange words in front of everyone here when he was announced before the feast and came to her table to give proper greeting. “My dear jarl, it seems you have snuck into my court without my knowledge completely.”

“A skill honed through many years of raids and pillages, your majesty,” he informs her, keeping stone-faced.

Her mouth quirks at that. She turns more fully to him, giving the odd little shift of her shoulders that always signals she’s preparing for verbal warfare.

This time, however, all he can think of is the scar, currently hidden beneath the layers of black. Just how delicate those shoulders truly are, even if they’re currently solid and broad, thanks to the cut of her dress.

“Well, now you must atone.” She offers her hand, which he steps forward to take. “Bore me with Skellige’s feelings towards our new port tariffs in Attre.”

She offers a small smile to the assembled company, as if apologizing: _A queen’s work is never done, sweet boys, and as I am all alone running this country, poor pitiful woman that I am, I must attend its matters._

It takes every ounce of self-control Eist has, not to laugh out loud at her antics. Instead, he merely ducks his head, leading her away. They skirt through the tables, closer to the edge of the hall, where less ears can overhear their supposed political conversation.

“They’re still watching?” She guesses.

He casually flicks his gaze across the room, “Aye.”

She growls at that. “You’d think I was a bitch in heat, the way they keep sniffing around. I fear turning my back on any of them for too long, lest they try to mount me.”

He blanches at the rather coarse imagery, and she laughs, a quick, almost-silent huffing sound that makes her eyes dance.

“Have I offended your delicate sensibilities, dear jarl?” She asks, tone curling with coy playfulness.

“You know me far better than that,” he chides easily. “We fish-fuckers have a much higher tolerance for shock, remember?”

She huffs again, dipping her head forward.

“Is any one in particular becoming…a problem?” He asks quietly. He remembers the story about the duke from Verden—and even more vividly the blade she held to his throat, more than ready to defend herself against any further advances in kind.

She blinks at that. Then shrugs, “No more than I can handle.”

“Just because one can handle something, doesn’t mean one should have to,” he returns lightly.

“A pirate philosopher, my, my.” Her tone goes haughty with feigned surprise.

Deflection. A sign that he's getting too close to the truth.

“You still have the blade I left you?”

“Of course.” There’s something impossibly soft about her tone. It makes his heart forget its purpose for a full beat.

Still, he simply gives a curt nod of approval, “Good. Let me know if you need a spare.”

She hums at that, obviously pleased at the silent vote of confidence contained within his words.

She leans back slightly, appraising him down the length of her nose. Tone tinged with curiosity, she quietly asks, “Why aren’t you among them, jarl?”

Damn his mind for inwardly retorting: _Among the men who'd gladly have you on your back? Oh, I most certainly am_. Instead, he merely shrugs, “The bitch has teeth.”

She chuckles at that. Still, she pushes, “Doesn’t mean she’ll bite.”

It’s the same tone she used, earlier: _You can look, if you want_. A permission granted, but somehow still not an invitation. But he wants more than just her allowance—always has.

“Not biting isn’t the same as being enthusiastically willing,” he points out.

She arches a brow, concedes the point. “Is that what you look for in a woman? Enthusiasm?”

“Among other qualities.”

“Such as?”

“Why the interest?” He asks, looking directly into her eyes, which widen in slight surprise.

“Academic curiosity,” she informs him. Then, with a slight smirk, she adds, “I may know a noble lady who would gladly take you.”

His pulse quickens but he retains an unaffected air. Not wanting to spook her, he gives a slight sigh, “I am not in want of a wife.”

“Nor in want of a body to warm your bed, if rumors are to be believed,” she arches a brow.

Ah, here it is, then. She’s heard about his most recent trip to Lyria. Not that he has any reason to be ashamed of it.

“What concern does the Queen hold for the state of my bed?” He wonders aloud.

She flushes at that. Still, she glances away, shrugging slightly, “I cannot commend you to the good lady, if I know for certain that you are a whoremonger.”

“No shame in paying a woman for the pleasure of her company,” he returns easily. “It is a far more honest trade than most marriages.”

She hums, obviously agreeing.

Still, he feels the need to add, “But for the benefit of your good lady, I will say that it has been ages hence since I have had to offer anything more than the pleasure of my own company in return.”

She presses her lips together at that. That wasn’t the question she was truly asking and they both know it. But she can’t bring herself to clarify.

He takes pity. Leans in, lowers his voice a bit more, “You may assure the good lady that, were I a man pledged in her keeping, I would stay where kept.”

Her shoulders loosen, just a fraction. Good, he thinks. They understand each other.

“She will be pleased to hear it,” Calanthe breathes, sounding quite relieved.

That’s when he knows for certain that the good lady is the queen herself. The odd, warm smile dancing just over the lines of her mouth, not actually gracing her lips, the lines of her eyes, easing slightly—she’s pleased, quite pleased.

_Enthusiastically willing_ , one might say.

“Walk me to the high table,” she commands, voice barely a whisper. “Be my shield against the over-eager dogs.”

“Any excuse to enjoy your company but for a moment more,” he returns grandly, using his courtliest tone, and she huffs at that. He easily places his body between hers and the rest of the room, and they continue chatting as they skirt around the edge of the hall, heads bowed together, shoulders so close that they occasionally bump into each other as they walk along.

He dips his voice lower, almost a tease, “Tell me more about this lady.”

Calanthe grins. “She’s fair of face.”

“Good, for I am a vain and shallow man in that regard.”

“Of sharp wit, too.”

“Quite important.”

“Hips quite set for birthing.”

“Not a requirement ever upon my list, but still, I love the look of a womanly figure.”

She hums at that. “Only the _look_ of one?”

He grins. She looks up, catches it, smirks in return. With a nod, she adds, “She’ll be a fine fit, I think. One certainly suited to handle you.”

“A rare creature indeed.” And that isn’t a lie, is it? She is rare, exceedingly so—and he adores her all the more for it. Perhaps even loves her.

Yes, he _loves_ her. Far beyond the mere flutter of attraction he’s felt, from the moment he saw her, two years ago. They’ve truly gotten to know each other since then, and he has come to love the person behind the queenly persona, the woman with her coarse jokes and her soft smiles and her rapid-firing intellect and her slow burning teases. She shouldn’t exist, he thinks a bit numbly, not all these contradictions tumbling inside one frame, shifting and swirling from moment to moment—and yet, she does. A miracle. A miracle, extending her hand to him—even more miraculous.

He lets the feeling settle further into his bones. She’s still got a month before she can remove the black, before she can be properly courted or wed. There’s no need to push too quickly. But she’s no blushing maid and he’s no untried princeling—they have no need to wait, once they’ve decided upon a course of action. His title is no impediment to hers, nor would he ask to truly be king. He’d much rather remain consort and leave the power to her—he certainly knows nothing of Cintran politics, and she is an effective ruler in her own right. He’s never much wanted for children, but if the nobles still clamored for more heirs, he’d gladly help her in that regard, most certainly.

That's what he truly wants, he realizes with a ripple of surprise. To help her, however she might need it. Not because she cannot do it on her own—but because she shouldn’t _have_ to. He meant his words, earlier. Just because she possesses such strength doesn’t mean it should constantly be tested. She’s proven herself enough, he thinks. She deserves a rest.

He thinks of how she looked at him, when she realized that he was coming to rescue her from the gaggle of would-be suitors. The way her smile had blossomed last time he visited, the way it made him feel as if he were somehow making things more bearable for her, in some small way. The way she looked at him, almost softly grateful, after he saw her scar, after they promised to be honest with each other. The way she teasingly asked him to be her shield, just moments ago—and how, maybe, it was actually an invitation for something far more lasting.

He wants that always, he realizes. Wants her to look upon him with such relief and delight, always. Wants to be her shield, against the rest of the world, always.

He lightly offers his hand, to aid her up the steps. She gives a sly smirk at that ( _nice try, jarl_ ), and instead uses both hands to gather her skirts, gently refusing his gallant gesture.

He grins at that. So even with this new understanding between them, she still plays the role of aloof and untouchable queen.

Let her play, he thinks. Let them both enjoy this time, because as far as he’s concerned, what comes after will be for the rest of their lives.

She offers one last smile over her shoulder, and somehow, it doesn’t fit. Then she moves down the table, where a noblewoman sits—she has hair a bit lighter than Calanthe’s, tinged with more red, and light eyes, which flutter slightly as Calanthe leans in to whisper.

Eist’s stomach turns to stone.

Calanthe’s gaze flick back to him, the corners of her eyes creasing in delight. The noblewoman doesn’t look his way, but it’s obvious that she’s fighting the urge to do just that.

Calanthe stands up straightly again, lifting her brows slightly and tilting her chin down to the woman again. _See?_

She genuinely means to arrange a marriage for him, to someone else. As if he is her subject, or worse still, some cast-off lover that she’s promised a landed title. A toy that she’s tired of playing with, to be given away to someone else.

His jaw tightens, and his anger must be plain enough to read, because Calanthe blinks, as if thrown off by his reaction.

He merely turns and goes back to his own table. He stays a bit longer, long enough to make it look as if he’s not just running away, and then takes his leave for his own chambers.

He doesn’t dare look up at the high table again. Doesn’t dare let his petulance and shock show.

Once he has firmly closed the door to his chamber, he gets the distinct sensation that someone’s waiting in the room already. He slowly turns to see the queen, practically hidden in the corner. The fire’s burning low and the curtains are drawn—in the thick shadows, wearing her black robes, she looks like an apparition, floating head and detached, pale hands.

“How did you get in here?” He asks, slightly dumbfounded. He’s still trying to process the way her whole body lifted slightly, as if pricked by some unseen pin, whenever his gaze met hers. The immediate crackle to the air, like the sky at sea just before a terrific storm. The way her eyes widened, swallowing the whole world with want.

This is the first time they’ve every truly been alone, he realizes—alone when no one else knows. Damn his heart for hammering into impossible hopes: maybe this was also a test, like before, maybe now she can see that his affections are firmly upon her, now she can say it was just a test, nothing more. Maybe _they_ can become something more.

But then she blinks, and the glittering, almost-hungry look in her eyes disappears with it. She seems unaffected, as if the moment of electric connection was merely his imagination. She gives a slight shrug, looking away. “It wouldn’t be my castle if I didn’t know how to navigate it better than anyone else.”

Some kind of secret passageway, he realizes. Either there are hidden entrances to every single room, or she specifically housed him in one of the few chambers that did hold such (he tries not to think about that, to think about why she’d plan such a detail).

Her hands twist together. Her eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them. Still, the rest of her expression is a mask of indifference.

“You are not pleased,” she states.

“To say the least.” The words slip before he can mitigate them.

She blinks hard, as if she’s been struck. He suddenly realizes that in the years they’ve known each other—for all ways she has lashed out at him—he has never shown displeasure or anger towards her, not even the slightest hint.

Still, he has every right to it. He drank a bit more than usual, and the ale certainly lives up to its reputation—but slightly drunk or not, the anger would still be there, and still be warranted. “I am not your subject, Calanthe. I cannot be commanded to wed, paired off like one of your prized stallions.”

“I’m not _commanding_ you.” She gives a slight huff, as if offended by the suggestion. “And while you are not my subject, the lady is. I owe her a duty of care.”

“And that somehow includes throwing her into a marriage with me?” He holds his hands out, incredulous.

“Is that such an awful fate?” There’s something careful, something quiet in her tone that makes him pause.

“The good lady would find far more happiness with a man who actually wishes to be married,” he answers simply.

Now Calanthe cocks her head to one side, frowning slightly. “You’re a curious creature, Eist Tuirseach.”

Has ever a darker kettle frowned upon a black pot, he wondered.

She takes a step closer, every line in her body filled with inquisitiveness. “You say that you do not wish for a wife—yet when I mention there is one willing to wed you, the tune changes. You give assurances of being a faithful husband, you ask after the lady, make agreeable comments to all her attributes, and yet, when you look upon her face, you turn and flee.”

A beat passes. She knows, he thinks. She knows, and yet, she wishes she didn’t. The second part creates a sharp ache in his chest.

Quietly, she prompts, “Was she so disagreeable to look upon?”

There’s something almost…hurt in her expression. He doesn’t quite understand it. Still, he answers honestly, “No, she’s more than agreeable.”

“Attractive, even?” There’s a slight rasp to her voice. Something smoky and dark, but not quite teasing.

“Aye,” he agrees. Her expression shifts, obviously satisfied with the answer.

“I meant what I said.” She levels her gaze. There’s no mask, just honesty. He believes her, believes that all her infuriating and confounding actions this evening are from a place of sincerity. “You would be a good match.”

_We would be an even better one_ , his mind retorts. However, he simply asks, “Why not marry her off to one of your would-be suitors?”

She huffs at that, eyes flicking heavenward in derision. “Because I wish her _well_. And I…owe her, a great deal.”

“How great?” He asks quietly. There’s something in her expression, in her tone that dances upon something more.

She gives a lift of one shoulder, keeping her gaze leveled firmly upon him. “She has been a comfort to me, these past few months. As she was, in my youth.”

It takes a moment for the coin to fully drop. His eyes widen in understanding.

The corner of her mouth curls into a smirk—that’s all the confirmation he needs. For a flash, he thinks maybe he’s read her wrong, for quite a while now. Maybe that explains why she never worried over Roegner’s infidelities, why she’s shown such disdain for any potential suitors. Why she acts as if she doesn’t truly know why Eist suddenly changed his tune on the subject of marriage.

She must read his thoughts plainly enough, because she arches a brow. “I’m not a simple woman, Eist.”

“There are few who would ever accuse you of such,” he offers. She hums amusedly at that.

Still, she persists, “One cannot live on ale alone, I find. Sometimes it’s necessary to…take wine instead. Or perhaps even those dour spirits the far northerners so love. A variety keeps the palate entertained and enlivened.”

He can’t disagree with her—and says as much. Again, she smirks, as if she knew he’d understand.

Then her expression softens. “I won’t force you into it, of course.”

“You couldn’t even if you wanted to.”

Her arched brows argue otherwise. Heaven help him, he shouldn’t find that look as attractive as he does. And she seems to notice that somehow, too, because her smirk deepens, just a fraction, for just a second. Which only confuses him more.

“Why now?” He can’t ask the actual question he wants to ( _why me, why are you pushing me away, why are you trying to marry me off, why are you pretending like there isn’t still lightning in the air between us even now?_ ).

She gives another careless shrug, “I promised that I would find her a good man, but it has not…been the easiest search. Then today, when we spoke in my chambers—”

She stops, ducks her head, presses her lips together as if she’s said too much.

He thinks back to this afternoon, too. The brief moment of vulnerability between them. The way she simply let him look upon her, the way she didn't truly shy away from his gaze. He looks at her again, more carefully. Even in the dimly lit room, there’s something unreadable in her expression, something almost desperate.

“Why not enjoy her company longer still?” Eist asks quietly. He feels like he’s learned so much about her, in such a small span of time—and yet this new knowledge brings nothing but more questions.

“The wine…grows stale.” She gives a slight sigh. “She wants children, which no one can fault her for. And for all my prowess and power, sowing bastards seemed to be my husband’s forte, not mine.”

He doesn’t know if he should laugh at the humor or feel sorry for the fact that she obviously is equally aware of all the rumors he’s heard, floating around court.

Still, the idea rankles. The audacity of it, more than anything. Again, he truly feels like one of her horses, being paired off for practical reasons, without a thought for his own wants or needs.

“So I’m being given your castaways?” He clarifies.

“Being _offered_ ,” she corrects.

“Still your castaways.”

“A horse can still be ridden, no matter the original owner,” she points out coolly (and again, he thinks, _that’s_ the problem—she’s looking at people like they’re something other than such, a simple equation to solve by putting two together).

“I’m sure she’d love the analogy,” he returns.

She huffs. “You’re the one wrinkling your nose like she’s day-old bread.”

“ _Stale_ —was that not the word you used?” He feigns slight confusion, as if he doesn’t quite remember.

“Only because she holds an expectation that I cannot fulfill,” Calanthe clarifies.

“And what, exactly, could I expect to happen, if I did fulfill those expectations?” He wonders aloud. “Would she come back to your bed then?”

Now the queen grins, offering a slight arch of her brow. “You wouldn’t be the first man I’ve cuckolded. But out of respect for a solid ally, I wouldn’t.”

_A solid ally_. It should be a compliment, yet it lands like a dull ache.

A heavy, odd pause ripples between them. It’s never been uneasy, he thinks—they’ve never been at a lack of words with each other, for over two years now. And yet, he realizes, maybe they’ve never actually said anything, this whole time. Because he feels as if he doesn’t understand her at all, and it’s obvious that she doesn’t know him, either.

Then she takes a half step, turning a bit more of her shoulder to him as her hand lightly covers her stomach. She clears her throat, looks down at the fire burning low in the hearth. “She’s got a sizeable fortune, thanks to her first husband—and she’s capable of bearing children, though she lost hers during the plague. She’s willing to relocate to Skellige, if you so wish, or to stay in her own lands, with only occasional visits from you—though I suspect you’ll certainly want her with you for more than a few nights per year.”

This doesn’t feel right. It’s so…transactional. He doesn’t even know the woman’s name.

She’s still watching the burning embers as if they’re the most fascinating thing in the world. He watches her face, the way the light ripples and shifts across it, how warm and golden it looks in the softness of the flames— _she_ truly is the most fascinating thing in the world. He clenches his hands into fists, willing himself not to confess all, not to beg her to consider another marriage, one between him and her.

Quietly, she speaks again, “You would find happiness together. That’s more than most can hope for.”

Talk of happiness, and yet her tone is so full of sadness, he notes. Maybe his first instinct was right—because if she didn’t care, why would the thought of him marrying another woman make her voice so heavy, her eyes so quiet and flat? Why would her fingers curl so tightly into her stomach, or her lips press into such a thin line? Why would she avoid his gaze, like she was fearful of what he might see, of what she might see, reflecting back at her?

No, he decides. There is still something here between them. There’s still tension around them, between them—there is still a connection, even if Calanthe is actively trying to sever it.

His poor heart cannot help but alight upon the one glimmer of hope. He cannot stop his voice from being far too soft as he gently points out, “You have a care for my happiness?”

She blinks, looking up at him in mild surprise as she breathes, “Of course.”

_Of course_. As if it should be so simple, so blindingly obvious. Eist’s head spins again. He’s dead-certain he’ll never understand this woman, as long as he lives.

“My words were true.” She speaks again, giving a small, curt nod. “She is a good fit for you, I know it.”

“I would prefer to make that decision for myself,” he points out. She blinks rapidly, pressing her lips together. His heart wants to scream out, _I would prefer to find better fit with you, you infuriating and unsolvable riddle of a creature._

He remembers the choice he made, whilst visiting the Jarl of Hindarsfjall. There had been no sparks when he’d looked upon Calanthe’s lover. No immediate connection, like he’d felt that night, two and a half years ago. Like he still feels, even now.

“I’m afraid it won’t work,” he admits quietly.

The queen stops, frowning again. “Why not?”

He can’t be honest (can he?). So he simply says, “She is a lovely woman, and if she has earned a place in your affections, I know she must certainly be of a high caliber. But I…was not moved, when I looked upon her.”

Now Calanthe snorts at that, genuinely incredulous. “ _Moved_ , dear jarl? Heavens, I didn’t take you to be such a blushing maid.”

There’s something almost scornful in her tone. It rankles. He tilts his head slightly, watching her. “Can you honestly say that you’ll marry again—marry someone who does not stir some form of passion in you?”

She stills, blinks as if she’s been struck. Her hands smooth down the front of her skirt.

“Passion is not the function of a queen.” She states simply.

_Bullshit_ , he thinks. _Passion is every breath you take, woman_.

“Besides…I can honestly say that I shan’t marry again.” She stands a bit straighter. “I have no need for it.”

Politically, perhaps, he can concede. Pavetta is almost ten—within a few years, she’ll be old enough to marry, and her husband would become king, if Calanthe is not remarried. And Cintra is a force to be reckoned with. Even now, even without a king, no other country would be brazen or foolish enough to take it on. Still, he cannot help but ask, “No need for love?”

Now she laughs, dry and mirthless. “Marriage and love are two very different beasts, good sir. You said as much yourself.”

He shrugs, unable to deny it. “They aren’t always.”

“No, I suppose not.” Her tone is slightly thoughtful. Then, resuming a curter air, she looks at him fully, “So, shall I inform the lady that you are not inclined?”

“Regretfully, I am not,” he says gently.

She takes another beat to simply look at him.

“You truly are a confusing creature, Eist Tuirseach.”

Again, he thinks: the world’s darkest kettle, calling a pot black.

Then she steps back, catches herself, turns to him again. “Look away.”

“What?”

“Look away. I don’t want you knowing all my secrets.”

Ah, the secret passageway that got her here. He turns away, fully obeying—and also biting back the retort that no one upon this blessed earth could ever know all her secrets, even if they spent a lifetime trying.

There’s shuffling, a light sound of something breezing open, then silence. He waits a beat more, and turns to see that, as expected, the corner where she stood is now empty, nothing but shadow.

With a heavy sigh, he takes a seat in front of the dying fire.

He will never understand her. And yet, he’ll wreck upon her shores with trying, he knows.

He does not sleep for most of the night. His mind is too thunderous, churning and turning over questions that never have answers.

She gives permission, but states no desires of her own. She claims a marriage would bring him happiness, but disdains the idea herself. She shows all the signs of returning his attraction and affection ( _of course_ , her voice stays with him, so weighted with emotion and a softness that still blows his mind to recall), yet she tries to marry him off to another—to her own lover, no less.

She pushes when she wants to pull, it seems.

Fear. He suddenly understands, halfway through the night. She’s still so full of fear.

And can he truly blame her? He’s heard the stories of Roegner. Of how happy they seemed to be, in the beginning. And he saw the end of that story—the disgusting way he treated her, the hurt and anger she radiated with, even after his death. Eist saw how powerless marriage made her, a queen whose crown only meant something as long as there wasn’t a king standing beside her as well.

She’s spent nearly a year, with men circling like vultures over a kill, ready to land and lay claim to her kingdom and her autonomy, once again.

He can’t blame her for fighting like hell against such a fate.

He can’t blame her for fearing anyone who might try to win her affection, only to use it against her later.

He can’t blame her for not knowing just how much he cares, just how differently he would treat her.

He can only blame himself, for not proving it enough. For not showing her just how unwavering he is in his affections, for not showing the depth of what he truly feels towards her in the first place.

Because he can’t deny it any longer—he does love her, in all her complexities and contradictions. He’s known from the moment they met that he felt a measure of desire towards her. But tonight at the feast, when he first thought she was proposing a union between them, he’d finally allowed himself to acknowledge that it was more than just that. It’s _devotion_ , something far deeper than just an appreciation for her pretty face or her sharp wit. It's a desire for more than just her body, more than just a few minutes of taking pleasure in it, in her—he wants to _give_ , to give himself, to give her peace and comfort and aid, however she needs it. 

Yes, he’ll surely wreck himself upon her jagged edges and imperious cliffs. But he has no choice. He’s never been one to believe in destiny—but now, he feels as if it is all simply fated, something he must accept. It’s beyond him. The only way to shift the tide will be if Calanthe chooses to do so, chooses to save him by leaning in as well, by fully acknowledging and accepting this thing between them.

It is not lost on him, the irony that the one person who could save him is also the one who will wreck him, if she doesn’t.

Melusine, he thinks again. This entire night, every moment shared with her, since the moment she called out to him in the corridor this afternoon, has merely been a seal upon his fate. He’s been called forth, called past some irrevocable line. He can’t do anything but let it consume him, let himself sink deeper.

He is already ship-wrecked, he realizes. He is already in love.


	5. Tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun fact you kinda need to know prior to reading: transporting horses across the sea in the Middle Ages involved having them in huge canvas slings (this kept them from stumbling/falling and breaking a leg during rougher sailing). I'm going to assume the Witcher 'verse had a similar system. Just...a visual/note to keep in mind.

**The North Sea (somewhere between Cintra and the Skellige Islands). Fall, 1244.**

The prize for winning the Queen’s Day tournament was a Cintran-bred courser—but before Eist left Cintra, Calanthe magnanimously decided to offer a bit more. Instead of the one mare, it became two mares and a stallion, so that Skellige could breed their own.

Eist greatly suspects this is the queen’s way of apologizing, oddly enough.

They barely spoke, the rest of the tournament. Even after Eist won the day and received the queen’s prize, there was still an odd air between them that evening as he sat at her table.

Eist had joked and offered easy conversation, but also tried to give her space, as she seemed uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed by her actions or mildly offended that he’d refused to wed her lover. Either way, he knew that he needed to give her a little time, to let them reset back to their usual selves. He could wait, he told himself. He’d done so for over two years now.

Then, as he’d gotten ready to make his leave for the evening, she’d haltingly offered the extra horses. Fumbling and almost-anxious, in a way that he’d never seen her before. As if she feared he would refuse, yet again—and truth be told, that was the main reason he’d accepted. To make her smile again, to make the tense lines of her shoulders ease, just a little.

His ship wasn’t equipped to handle more horses, so they’d made plans for him to return in a few weeks’ time to retrieve them with a slightly larger ship.

Somehow, during the missives sent between Skellige and Cintra, Bran himself had sent a raven—and extended an invitation for the queen to visit, so that they could finally meet each other.

Calanthe had, surprisingly, accepted.

Which is exactly how they ended up here: in the middle of the sea, in the middle of a storm, with the Queen of Cintra somehow being more chaos than the tempest itself.

The last part does not surprise Eist in the least.

The horses had been uneasy during the boarding—Calanthe had personally led each one up the ramp and into the hold, and Eist had tried not to grin, watching her in this odd new light as she murmured reassurances in a low, soothing tone. He'd also tried not to pay too much attention to her dress, a beautiful cerulean blue that rippled and swirled with the breeze. The dress itself was unremarkable—but what it symbolized was entirely miraculous, in Eist's opinion.

The Queen of Cintra no longer wears black. She is free.

The first day had been easy sailing, though a bit disappointing as Calanthe had stayed in her own quarters, apparently ill-adjusting to the sea. Today had seen a storm slowly brewing, and by nightfall, the wind had picked up and the rain had begun.

Now, there’s thunder and lighting, a true squall with rising waves and plummeting lurches, the kind that will quickly turn into something that has men praying to whatever god they can name.

All Eist can think is that he can’t let this ship sink—he can’t have brought her out to sea just to lose her.

And it won’t. It’s a tough storm but not the worst he’s seen. His crew will get a bit shaky, but they’ll pull through, as always.

Then Birge, his first mate, appears, face lined with a serious expression. “We’ve a situation. It’s the queen.”

Somehow, Eist isn’t as surprised as he thinks he should be, hearing such words.

He follows Birge—not to the queen’s quarters, as expected, but rather further down into the hold, where the terrified whinnies of horses suddenly answer his unspoken confusion.

One of the horses is kicking enough to bring down the entire damn ship. And above the din, he hears voices.

“Ya’ majesty.” Definitely Holger, one of his men. “We haven’t the—”

“I said I will handle it, and I _will_.” Calanthe, no question about it. “Now step back and let me.”

Eist fully descends into the hold to see the two arguing in the dim light of the oil lamps, which are swaying wildly.

Another wave rises and everyone shifts unsteadily on their feet. The horses, slightly suspended in their harnesses, sway like half-ton pendulums, whinnying in fear. The middle horse hauls off again, kicking as if its life depends on it.

Calanthe’s attention is back to the horse, immediately. She grabs the lead line attached to its halter, using all her might to guide its head back down so that she can stroke its nose, offering words meant to calm and soothe. The horses on either side still nicker and make small sounds of unease, but they don’t try to destroy the stalls, thankfully.

Holger spots Eist and Birge, motions back to the horses with a frustrated air. “These bastards’ll sink the bloody ship! We need to bind the legs to keep ‘em from kicking.”

“You will do no such thing.” Calanthe whips back around, face set in an expression extremely similar to the one she wore when holding a blade to Eist’s neck, the night of Roegner’s funeral feast. “They’ll only be more terrified, and struggle harder—they could break a leg. Each one of these animals is worth more than you'd make in ten years' time. You don’t—”

“They’re still not worth sinking the entire damn ship,” Holger fires back. “I don’t give a flying fuck—”

“Keep bellowing and you'll give more than that,” Calanthe snaps, with the kind of vehemence that immediately puts Eist on alert.

She fully turns her attention to Eist, every ounce of her body brimming with frustration. “Can you _please_ get your man under control and have him leave me to it before I draw blood?”

Holger looks back at Eist, who merely raises his brows. The truth is that the hull is built to withstand some kicking, from even larger war horses. It will hold. But storms make people just as anxious and frightened as the horses, and it’s obvious that both Holger and Calanthe are running on emotion.

Still, Eist must be the captain, in this situation.

“He’s no one’s man,” Eist points out idly. The tension in Holger's shoulders ease a fraction. “He’s free as any Skelliger could ever be.”

The Queen of Cintra rolls her eyes at that. Pointedly turns back to the horse, who calms a bit under her attentions.

Eist glances over at Birge, motions that he’s free to leave. Birge does, but he seems hesitant—whether he's reluctant to miss a good show or not sure the two men can survive against the queen, Eist isn’t sure.

Holger, however, seems determined to win this battle of wills.

“We could be in the storm for hours,” he points out, still glaring at the queen.

“And I will be down here until it ebbs,” she returns, giving a slight shrug of her shoulder.

The ship pulls down into another stomach-turning roll and everyone skitters to stay upright. Now all three horses begin to toss their heads and kick against the hull.

And now pandemonium breaks loose.

Because Holger reaches for the horse nearest him (to help, Eist hopes)—and Calanthe’s immediate reaction is to lunge at him, blade appearing from nowhere as she rams him up against the nearest post, her forearm across his chest, steadying the blade's hold against Holger's neck.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Eist is moving forward, trying to separate them. One good roll of the ship and she'll accidentally slit the man's throat, Eist realizes with a flash of panic.

“Touch them again and this blade will know the taste of your blood,” Calanthe hisses and seethes, but she lets Eist's hand take her shoulder and gently pull her back.

The blade comes down. Eist realizes it’s the blade he gave her, a year ago.

Eist glances over at Holger, who merely glares back at the queen as if he’d like nothing more than to pull out his own weapon.

“Holger,” Eist says quietly, so quietly that he isn’t sure it can be heard over the din of the storm.

The man blinks, looks over at Eist. Then he simply shakes his head and heads above deck again. He gives a flop of his hands: _You deal with her_ , _I’m done_.

Calanthe has already slipped out of his grasp and is focused on her precious ponies again. Remarkably, she’s gotten them quiet, although he can tell by their rolling eyes and lifting heads that they’re not entirely calmed.

He raises his voice to be heard, but keeps his tone flat and neutral. “For future reference, I would prefer that you didn’t physically threaten my men with violence.”

“I thought he was no one’s man,” she points out, not even bothering to look back.

He flicks his eyes heavenwards at that. The ship swells upwards beneath their feet and he can see the way her grip tightens on the lead line, trying to stay steady.

Idly, he realizes she probably hasn’t sailed in years, if ever. What a hellacious introduction to life at sea, he thinks.

Having learned a lesson from her reaction to Holger, he doesn’t move forward, but rather asks, “What can I do to help?”

She blinks and looks over at him in surprise. Now he notices the dark circles under her big brown eyes, just how sallow her skin looks in the dim light. She’s still ill, he realizes.

She nods towards the horse on her right, “Take Ala’s lead. Keep her head down, as close to your chest as possible. And…be gentle. And calm.”

He does as instructed, mimicking Calanthe’s stance—she has the middle horse’s forehead right at her collarbone, left hand still holding the lead line and right hand lightly stroking its cheek.

“Keep your face turned to the side,” she adds, with a slight smirk. “If she jerks her head up, it’ll save your jaw from being broken.”

Important advice. Plus, it gives him the excuse to turn his face fully to her.

She merely stares at him for a beat, almost as if she wants to smile. Instead, she queries, “Shouldn’t you be on deck…captaining the ship?”

“Sometimes being a good captain means knowing when to delegate,” he points out.

Now she smiles, just a bit. She shifts as the horse sways in its harness. She glances down at the creature whose head is large enough to fill her arms, and lightly kisses it.

It’s so inexplicably adorable and tender, Eist’s entire chest clenches.

He’s going to marry her. He knows it. This beautiful riddle of a creature who pushes when she wants to pull, who would slice a man’s throat in a heartbeat and who kisses half-ton horses like a mother adoring her newborn babe, who never ceases to surprise him with her sudden twists and turns.

He’d been nervous, returning to Cintra this time. They’d left things so oddly, after the tournament—even more so than after Roegner’s funeral, he thought. But she’d greeted him with her usual snarky air, had acted as if nothing had ever been amiss between them. He’d gladly accepted the unspoken invitation to move past the awkwardness of before.

The ship’s rising again, and this time, Eist knows they’ll plummet over the other side of a wave—half from sheer experience, half from the warning shouts from above decks.

“Brace yourself,” he warns, and her eyes widen in both fear and questioning. Before he can reassure her, the ship drops forward, and she practically slides to the other side of the hold. He releases the horse and goes after her, grabbing her arm before she slams into the wall completely.

The horses go wild again and she immediately tries to move back to them, but the ship shifts and lurches again. Eist grabs a post with his left arm, hauling her closer with his right.

“Hang on!” He commands, and for once, she listens. She wraps her arms around the pillar and lets him wrap his right arm around her shoulders, ducking her head as they slam down into the trough of another set of waves. He tries to angle himself so that he doesn’t crush her, if the ship throws them forward again—but even now, his arm is still around her, and he can feel how much she’s shaking.

He dips his head, brings his lips a bit close to her ear so that she can actually hear him, over the horses and the crew yelling above. “It’s going be alright—this isn’t the worst we’ve seen, by far.”

She shifts, just a bit, looking up at him in a mixture of fear and hope. Then, the corner of her mouth hitches into a smile. “Not yet, anyways.”

He has to laugh. And concede a point.

“Not yet, anyways,” he echoes. And yes, it’s true. The storm could worsen. It could become the worst he’s ever seen, it could become the kind of squall that sinks the entire ship. He simply smiles down at her, “You gotta have faith, your majesty.”

She blinks up at him again. She looks as if she might speak, but the entire ship begins a slow, lazy upwards shift.

“Big wave,” he warns. She tightens her grip around the post and ducks her head into his shoulder, awaiting the drop.

It’s such a small action, such a barely-there thing. Yet his entire world comes to a stand-still.

She trusts him. She’s actively seeking him out. She’s letting him be exactly what he wanted, that first night of the tournament—her shield.

He barely has time to tighten his own grip before they plummet forward, the sounds of chaos erupted into even louder levels.

Water comes sloshing down the steps of the hold, though he isn’t surprised. That wave was definitely large enough to sweep over the decks. He keeps his head ducked forward, just a beat longer. Keeps himself just a little closer to her, just a moment more. He can feel the fear radiating off her, can feel her entire body shaking with nerves and nausea, and he just wants to hold her, even though he doesn’t dare.

He can’t tell her that he loves her. Not like this. But oh, there’s nothing he wants more.

The horses are absolutely chaotic now. She leans, trying to see past his shoulder to look at them.

“I should have listened,” she admits. “We should have bound their legs.”

He feels a wash of surprise. He's not sure he’s ever heard her confess to being wrong.

Again, more than anything, he just wants to help.

“C’mon.” He shifts, glances up to find one of the ropes that runs the length of the hold overhead. He grabs it with his right hand, shifting and letting go of the pillar with his left to offer her the support.

She looks up, wide eyes quickly taking in the line and obviously piecing together his intent. Then she transfers her grip from the post to his waist, still staying so close that his body jolts with electricity, even in a moment as fearful as this.

She’s definitely not letting go. He can use both hands on the line, keeping himself a little steadier as they make their way closer to the stalls again.

The ship rolls and more water comes sloshing down the stairs.

“That’s…not the best sign, is it?” She asks, her tone already lined with knowing.

“Better than the water coming up from the floorboards,” he reasons.

He feels her shaking up against him—this time, it’s a laugh.

The horses are beginning to nicker at her approach, all straining to be closer to her.

Trust, he thinks again. These creatures are experiencing the most terrifying moment of their lives and still they look to her, fully expecting her to save them, to lead them to some kind of peaceful resolution.

Always a queen, he smiles softly. Even in the dimly-lit hold of a ship, she leads.

They finally get back to the stalls. Calanthe reaches for a post and Eist immediately misses the weight and warmth of her arms around him.

Then she ducks under the thick rope sectioning off the stall, tightly holding onto the middle horse's harness as she slowly begins stroking down its shoulder, soothing it into a calmer state.

“We go sideways and you'll be crushed,” he points out, even as he slips under the rope to join her.

“Won’t be the first time,” she returns dryly.

The ship sways and rolls. They both hold on to whatever they can reach and duck their heads together.

“Mind the hooves,” she calls out, and he does.

The horses still struggle and whinny, but they’re far less volatile. They feel safer, he realizes, having Calanthe nearby again.

Calanthe leans her cheek against the horse's shoulder, lightly patting its neck, softly cooing praise and reassurance.

Eist is staring, he knows he is, and yet it is the only think keeping him from speaking, from telling her his heart and pledging it to her, here and now. The oil lamps are swinging wildly, throwing her face between shadow and light, and every glimpse is so soft that it seems profane, the shadow of her eyelashes upon her cheeks as she softly closes her eyes, the moving of her lips even though he cannot hear her words at all.

Eist feels a brush against his right shoulder—he turns to see Ala, the horse he'd held earlier, butting her long nose against his arm. He reaches over and gently strokes her neck.

When he glances back, Calanthe is watching him with a small, soft smile.

“They trust you,” she says simply, obviously pleased.

“Only because you do.” He speaks before be truly considers what he's said. It may be true, but he isn’t sure Calanthe would actually like to admit it.

Her mouth doesn’t hitch upwards, but those dark eyes still smile. Somehow, he can feel the small hum of agreement she makes. He can’t truly hear it—he can’t hear anything, over the rising sound of the wind and the shouts of his men above.

“Tie down!” A voice rings out. Eist's entire body tenses at the declaration.

He isn’t sure if Calanthe actually heard the command—much less understood it—or if she simply read his expression clearly enough.

Either way, she’s reaching for him, even as he reaches for her. The ship lurches harder than ever, and he pulls her out of the way of the horse's swinging body just in time, practically slamming her into his chest as he falls back against a post. She keeps her arms around him, hands gripping the post behind him, keeping them both anchored—he feels a ripple of surprise at just how strong she is, just how firmly her arms keep them both upright.

He tries not to focus on the rest of her body, pressing into his, just as firmly. She ducks her head, pushes her cheek against his chest. Instinctively he puts his hand over her temple, trying to shield her in any way that he can.

If they die tonight, Eist Tuirseach will personally wage war against every god in heaven and hell. He's imagined a moment so similar to this, and he feels a surge of anger that the reality is so chaotic and fearful.

There’s a slight lull and they move quickly—he guides her out of the actual stall, so that they won’t be crushed. He grabs a rope and motions her over to another pillar.

“We have to tie down to something, or else we'll be tossed like ragdolls!” He yells above the wind and the rain.

Her eyes are wide with fear, but she nods. Holds him tighter as they make their way along the ropeline again.

At least the constant choppy shifting and rolling means the horses can’t really stay in place long enough to actually kick their way through the hull—not that they ever could to begin with. He thinks she’s known that, too, all along. She just needed some to focus on, to keep back the terror of their circumstances.

He ties them both to the pillar, using a method he's perfected over the years at sea—at the right height, to keep from pulling too much against the back, tight enough to keep them secure but loose enough not to hurt them too much when the ship tosses them about.

This time, they keep their backs to the post, her right arm pressed up against his left as they brace for what will surely be an awful time.

“At least you’ll have quite a story to tell Pavetta, when you return,” he offers, not sure what else to say but still needing to hear her voice anyways.

She gives a quick, sharp laugh at that. “I don’t think she’ll believe me.”

The ship dives down into another trough and she makes a low sound, like perhaps finally the rolling and roiling has gotten to her.

“The worst is almost over,” he assures her.

“How on earth can you possibly know that?”

“I have faith.”

She practically snorts at that. The wind screams and the water rushes down the stairs again in a small burst. She raises her voice to be heard over the storm. “Why do I get the feeling that you and your faith will be the death of us all, jarl?”

“Better to die in hope than live in despair,” he reasons.

“You fish-fuckers do so love your philosophy, don’t you?” She drawls. Now it’s his turn to huff in amusement.

The waves get choppier and the ship shudders and lilts along. Calanthe makes a small sound of pain when one particularly hard jump smacks the back of her head against the post.

“Y’alright?” He asks, immediately concerned.

“Oh, I’m doing quite well, thank you,” she returns, completely deadpan. “All roses and song over here, dear jarl.”

He loves her for it. Closes his eyes and promises that as soon as he can, as soon as the time is right, he’ll get on bended knee and profess, will take her hand in his, and hopefully never let it go again, at least not metaphorically.

The oil lamp closest to the entrance goes out, doused under a particularly large wave of water shooting down the stairs. Calanthe makes another sound of dismay. Eist doesn’t care, either way—light or no light, the storm will be exactly the same. But for her, it may be different. He wonders if she’s ever had to surrender to the whims of nature like this, to be completely at the mercy of something so much larger and uncontrollable. It can be terrifying, the first time one is confronted by their own insignificance upon the sea.

“This still isn’t the worst I’ve ever seen,” he announces, suddenly deciding to distract her. “Did I ever tell you of the time our drakkar wrecked upon the shores of Nazair?”

“Seems like the worst possible story to tell at a time like this,” she points out dryly. “But anything to pass the time, I suppose.”

So she’s fully aware that he’s trying to distract her. He isn’t surprised that she’s so easily read his intent.

“Go on,” she nudges him with her shoulder. “Terrify us with the possibilities of what could happen, good sir.”

He laughs at her unaffected air, at how well she plays the role of beleaguered and unimpressed monarch. He glances over to find her smiling at him, oddly enough. The only remaining oil lap is across the hold, behind her, but he can still make out her facial expression enough to be surprised by the warm amusement in her eyes—and the absolute fear they try to hide.

He is reminded of the walk in the gardens, the day they talked of port tariffs. Her hair is soaked, plastered on her forehead and cheek in wisps and tendrils, and he wants to reach up and brush them away, to let his fingertips trace the outline of her cheek. She’s close enough that he could lean down and—if she dared to shift forward just a little—kiss her.

Maybe he’s half-mad with adrenaline and fear. Maybe he’s filled with absolute clarity. Either way, he swears that he sees her gaze flicker down to his mouth, just briefly. As if perhaps she’s realized the same thing, too.

And yet, even now, he sees so much fear in her. He can’t save her, can’t end the storm or steer them to safer, calmer waters or magick her nerves and adrenaline away. But he can make it more bearable, in some small way—it’s all that he can do, and he’ll commit himself to doing it, as best he can.

He clears his throat and begins telling his story. The ship pitches and bucks, more water comes rushing in around their ankles, the men shout and the horses whinny.

He finds he can’t quite look at her, sometimes. It’s a bit too much, the way she keeps her gaze on his face.

The story finishes. He begins another. Anything to pass the time.

Finally, he begins to notice that it’s been awhile since water has pushed down the stairs. The men aren’t yelling as much. The waves are still too large to be considered easy sailing, but they’re not as choppy or chaotic.

“I think it’s safe enough to move,” he announces. She merely hums in agreement—he can actually hear the low sound, he realizes. The horses have gone quiet, too.

His fingers feel stiff and raw as he unties them. She’s beginning to shiver, too.

“Are we—” Her breath catches, just a bit. “Are we safe?”

“Yes,” he decides. “I think we’re at the tail-end of it all.”

She promptly walks over to the stalls, grabs the nearest bucket, and empties her stomach into it.

He can’t help but stare, shocked at the absolute control she displays, even now—she's had to have been nauseous for hours now, he thinks, but her ironclad will wouldn’t allow her a moment of physical weakness until she was truly out of danger.

She stands up straight again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Fuck. I need a drink.”

He laughs in agreement at that. Glances around. “Hang on.”

He relights the other oil lamp, gingerly makes his way through a small passageway into another section of the hold. Rummages through the crates, finds a flask of wine.

Calanthe, predictably, wrinkles her nose when he tells her it's Temerian. She is, also predictably, back at the horses, patting their noses and scratching behind their ears as if they’re extremely large dogs.

“I hold great fondness for Foltest, and Temeria's hawks are beyond compare.” She shakes her head sadly, still taking the flask from him anyways. “But his nation fails abysmally at wine-making.”

The middle horse butts its head against her shoulder. She gives it a long, sideways look.

“You have already caused enough trouble, sir,” she drawls. “The last thing we need is you getting drunk.”

Eist’s mouth twinges from grinning so deeply at this strange woman who talks to her horses as if they’re truly human.

She tuts slightly, though she still uses her free hand to stroke its cheek. “I should have named this one after the dearly departed king, for all the trouble he's caused me.”

“I am thankful you didn’t,” Eist admits. “I’d find it most uncomfortable to ride him.”

She laughs at that, quick and sharp and loud enough to startle the horses.

Then she hums, moving away and focusing on opening the wine. “A sentiment I can wholeheartedly echo.”

He feels a pang at her wry tone, how it implies there’s more truth than jest to her words.

Maybe it was a good thing, that Roegner seemed to shun his wife’s bed, Eist thinks. He knows the way of royal life—paired off with a spouse generally not of one’s choosing, fulfilling certain duties for the good of crown and country—and of course, he's known that Calanthe suffered that same fate. But the thought still rankles. The woman was built for passion and love. The idea that she’s experienced less than that hurts his heart (and _oh_ , he thinks—if he can prove himself, if he can find the right words, when he asks for her hand, if he can be blessed with her acceptance, how he’ll make sure she never experiences such a thing ever again, upon his honor, upon his very life he’ll make good on that promise).

He quietly watches her as she reaches the other side of the hold, leaning against the wall and gingerly sliding down to sit.

She blinks at him, lifting up the wine. “It is unseemly for a lady to drink alone. Come save me, yet again.”

The _yet again_ makes his heart flutter. He isn’t sure what he’s done in the past to truly warrant the idea that she’s been saved by him, but he likes the idea that she sees him in such a light. Likes even more the idea that she _allows_ him to save her, that she _welcomes_ it, in some small way.

He hangs up the oil lamp, ducking his head to hide his childish glee as he moves closer. He settles in beside her—she scoots a bit closer, so that their shoulders are touching again. His chest tightens at the small vote of trust and confidence her action implies.

She barely lets the flask touch her lips as she drinks. He appreciates the gesture of thoughtfulness. Then she hands it over to him with a small hum.

“You didn’t finish your story,” she points out, tone etched with fatigue.

“Do you truly want to hear the rest?” He's a bit surprised. He’d merely been grasping at straws, telling the tale of another storm—an ice storm, much farther north.

She hums in confirmation. Quietly, she admits, “I’ve never been to Kovir. It sounds…nice.”

There’s something wistful in her tone. Not quite regretful or longing, but…close.

“It is,” he concedes softly. Takes a drink of wine before adding, “If you like freezing cold and windburn.”

She huffs at that. “Was it any worse than this?”

He considers the question. “Well, at least this situation has pleasant company.”

“Speak for yourself.” She takes the wine back. She’s smirking, looking a bit more like her usual self. But her skin is still sallow, flecked with beads of sweat and sea water, hair still wild and eyes still rimmed with dark circles, lips still cracked from lack of water and pale from the cold. And she’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He merely grins. A beat passes.

“I should go back up. Check on my ladies,” she announces. As a queen, she brought an entire retinue along for the trip.

She doesn’t actually make a move.

“Finish the story first?” He offers.

She nods, handing the wine back. “Finish the story first.”


	6. Nothing

**Cintra. Spring, 1246.**

Eist Tuirseach feels the familiar wave of dread as the city of Cintra appears on the horizon. He takes a deep breath, steels himself.

It’s even worse, coming in like this, at the tinge of twilight. By the time they dock and make their way to the castle, it will be dinner time. And there’s sure to be a gaggle of royals, envoys, and ambassadors.

He’d rather not greet Calanthe of Cintra in front of such a large crowd. Especially given how things are between them now.

He had ruined it all, a year and a half ago. Calanthe had come to Skellige, had been a shining star, absolutely charming to his brother the king and more than daring enough to take on the jarls in various petty little competitions throughout the week.

Eist had always known she was a bit competitive. But he hadn’t known just how deeply that particular vein ran. The whole visit, she’d challenged him—racing the horses she’d brought from Cintra over the hillsides, shooting arrows and throwing axes, starting drinking games and even challenges of wit and memory. Eist had been in heaven. In between, they’d flirted and verbally sparred, and in the quieter times, he’d simply enjoyed watching her interact with Bran, as a visiting dignitary.

He couldn’t wait to bring her back to Skellige again—the next time as his wife, the next time as the queen’s consort, celebrating the union between Cintra and the Isles.

It had taken every ounce of self-control to wait. Once they were back on the sea, headed towards Cintra once more, he finally felt the time was right. The weather was smooth and clear this time, and they’d taken a walk upon the decks at night, to see the stars. They were shivering from the cold, both not quite meeting each other’s gazes (and _that_ , that was how Eist knew it was truly mutually felt—because this woman could look anyone dead in the eye, but now, with him, sometimes she suddenly seemed too shy, too overwhelmed), and he’d felt the small ripple in his heart: _now, now is the time_.

He’d quietly gotten down on bended knee and, with all his heart, asked for hers in return.

Her face had crumpled into an expression of fear and dismay, and the stars seemed to fall straight into the sea.

_You…can’t_. She’d said simply.

_I can’t…love you?_ He’d been bewildered and a touch indignant—as if she could command his emotions, on a whim (oh, but she could, and that was the problem, wasn’t it?).

She’d shaken her head. Quietly, she’d decreed: _You simply want what you can’t have, dear jarl. You’ve gotten caught up in the chase—the feeling will fade._

He’d told her of how he’d always felt towards her. How the feeling had not faded, after so many years. The lines around her expressive eyes had merely tightened into an even more pained look.

_All the more reason to never be_ , she had said in a flat tone. _What was it you said, the night of the storm? Better to die in hope than live in despair?_

There had been a tinge of mockery to her tone. A shade he’d heard her use, but never in his direction.

He had thought his heart couldn’t possibly break any further.

He’d been wrong.

She had quickly returned to her quarters and had not reappeared until it was time to disembark at Cintra.

And in the seventeen long months since, she has kept him at a distance. He has visited twice during that time on affairs of state. When the Queen’s Day tournament had rolled around, Bran had sent him to Redania for an emissary tour of the ports—Eist greatly suspected it was his brother’s way of trying to help, and either way, he appreciated the excuse not to attend. When Eist did attend Calanthe’s court, she had been civil, achingly polite—and that’s the part that truly aches, just how polite she is now. She doesn’t jest with him, doesn’t offer snarking quips or low asides, doesn’t allow for any of their former familiarity, doesn’t even call him _good sir_ or _my dear jarl_ in her usual mocking tone. She is fire, and she has withdrawn the bite and warmth of her flames from his presence. Now, she is merely a painting of fire—something he can look upon and recall the memory of its warmth, but cannot feel at all anymore.

That itself is worse than the actual rejection of his proposal, he thinks. To have known just how vivid she could be, and to be greeted with a flat mask instead. To have the privilege of truly knowing her withdrawn.

The ship docks and within the hour, he’s winding through the still-nearly-unnavigable halls of the castle. Unsurprisingly, the place is already crawling with dignitaries. It is the biannual peace conclave. Sometimes, he thinks two years is a rather long stretch—and sometimes, he thinks he could go much longer without seeing a few of these pompous twats.

The queen is not able to receive him—she’s already preparing for the night’s feast. He follows an attendant to his own chambers and gets himself ready as well.

Mousesack, as usual, proves his value. As they walk towards the great hall, he quietly sidles up to Eist and tells him what he’s gathered so far.

“The Duke of Bremervoord has become a rather frequent fixture at court, it seems.” The implication in the druid’s tone tells Eist everything he needs to know about the general speculation on that particular subject. “And it seems the nobles are pushing for Pavetta to be married.”

“Married?” Eist blanches at the thought. “Gods above, she just turned eleven.”

He doubts her husband would be the same age. The thought alone makes his stomach turn.

Mousesack merely shrugs. After all, he is simply the messenger. “Calanthe is quickly approaching an age where more heirs will not be possible—”

Eist rolls his eyes at that. She’s only just turned thirty-one. His own mother was six and thirty, when she bore him, the fourth and final child.

“And her continued refusal to marry seems to only further hinder the process,” Mousesack points out drolly.

_I can honestly say that I shan’t marry again._ Calanthe had declared that with absolute certainty, and what had he done, a month later? Proposed, like a fool.

Eist tries to push the thought away as they enter the great hall. The herald announces them, and instinctively, Eist’s gaze goes to the high table.

She is there, beautiful as always. She shifts in her seat, as if almost curious to see him. Plays with her earring, then turns her attention back to the man seated on her right. The Duke of Bremervoord, no less.

It hurts Eist more than it should—they’d both been in agreement about the man. And now…Calanthe is acting as if he is some dear friend, smiling and chatting with him at her table.

It’s a quiet declaration of her lack of trust in _him_ , Eist realizes. A silent breaking of the pact they made, that moment he’d seen her scar from Hochebuz. _Let us remain, like this. Honest, with each other._

They did not remain as they were. And apparently they are no longer honest with each other, allies against the rest.

His stomach only tightens at the thought.

But sweet-faced Pavetta still lights up at the sight of him, wriggling a bit in her seat as he approaches the high table. He will acknowledge her, crack a joke to make her smile—not everyone deigns to actually speak to the little princess, much less address her as an equal, and she relishes the chance to be seen, Eist knows.

As the youngest of four siblings, he understands the need to be seen. He smiles as he approaches, bowing grandly before the Queen and her heir.

“Eist of Skellige, welcome back to Cintra.” Calanthe smiles, but her eyes do not dance. She does not call him the Good Jarl of Skellige anymore, doesn’t tease and give him that conspiratorial look that used to make him grin like a fool in turn.

“It is a delight to be back, as always, your majesty.” He doesn’t try to recreate the sense of camaraderie anymore, either. She has set a line, and he does not cross it. Still, he tilts his head in deference again to Pavetta, “And you, your highness, you seem a bit taller since last we met.”

Pavetta sits up a bit more straightly, raising her chin in a gesture that is so like her mother that it makes Eist’s heart hurt, just a bit. “Well-spotted, good sir. I am officially tall enough to not need assistance onto my horse now.”

_Officially_. Pavetta’s favorite word, Eist notes with a small smile. She always says it so properly, so stuffily, it’s adorable.

And she’s obviously proud of the fact that she can mount her horse unassisted. He spares at glance at her mother, whose expression curls with warm pride as she looks upon her. Calanthe is proud, too, even at such a small milestone.

“Then I fear the rest of the world should be on-alert,” Eist intones seriously. “Now you can come and go as you please—roaming the hills and highways, causing all sorts of havoc, no doubt.”

Pavetta grins at the idea.

Calanthe’s hand comes out, delicately tucking a wayward blonde curl behind her daughter’s ear. “Perhaps let us not fill the princess’ head with too much derring-do, good sir.”

He ducks slightly at that. “I am certain the tales of her mother’s tame and meek nature shall surely guide her to less dangerous paths, your majesty.”

Calanthe smirks, but doesn’t actually glance over at him.

Eist takes his leave of the high table and follows the page to his own. He waits. It is always only a matter of time, at these things.

Sure enough, the Lyrian ambassador finds a seat next to him, within the first half-hour.

Orsovold nods in the direction of the high table, lowly intoning, “Seems the queen is quite…taken with the duke’s tale.”

The man never wastes time with hedging, Eist thinks dourly. He feels a secondary flash of irritation at Orsovold’s tone. At the little hesitation before the word _taken_ , the implication that the duke has taken far more of the queen than just her attention. At the audacity of the man, to gossip like a washerwoman, less than fifty feet from the subject of his rumor.

“The duke is a skilled storyteller,” Eist concedes, taking a drink of his ale.

“Tell me, will he have your seat at the table, tomorrow?”

The question makes Eist blink, makes him shift in his seat to fully face Orsovold’s genial expression.

“It is practically custom that you sit beside the queen at these conclaves, is it not?” Orsovold is as pleasant and unaffected as ever, but there’s an odd light in his grey-green eyes.

There’s an implication there, too, Eist thinks. That his closeness to the queen isn’t confined to having a seat by her side—and while Eist wishes beyond all measure that it were true, he angers at the thought that anyone would assume the worst of Calanthe. Especially since the last two conclaves occurred when she was either fully married or a widow fully in mourning.

“I sit where I am told. Same as any emissary.” He keeps his tone flat, a bit hard at the edges. He will not encourage this, neither with anger nor amusement. “Last I checked, I do not own a single thing in this castle—so to stake claim on a particular chair seems both preposterous and ill-advised.”

Orsovold blinks, obviously understanding the warning Eist’s words hold _: the claims you’re subtly making are also preposterous and ill-advised—ill-advised because any further insistence will be met with something far sharper than words._

“A well-stated point,” he says simply. But he doesn’t concede that it’s necessarily true, Eist notes. Orsovold takes a drink, and changes the subject, somewhat. “The House of Raven has other birds in its branches, good sir. Ones with softer beaks.”

Eist frowns as he looks at Orsovold again.

“Princess Meve of Lyria,” he states, as if that answers Eist’s confusion. “A near mirror-image of the esteemed Queen of Cintra, though a touch more tractable, and—unlike her cousin—willing to marry.”

Surely Eist has drunk too much. Lost his mind. This conversation cannot be happening. 

“Granted,” Orsovold shrugs, as if completely unaware of Eist’s shock. “She is only seventeen—one cannot account for how she may age. These women do have a habit of becoming…more robust in their personalities, with time, do they not?”

He’s smiling conspiratorially, fully expecting Eist to nod along.

Eist wars between wanting to stab the man and wanting to simply vomit in his lap.

“If a man can’t handle a woman’s personality, tis best he marries a sheep,” Eist returns, completely deadpan. “It would spare the man his fragile pride, and the woman the chagrin of a weak husband.”

Orsovold blinks rapidly at that, as if his mind is swirling to catch up.

Eist wonders if perhaps this is another set-up by Calanthe. Trying to marry him off, yet again—he thought she wouldn’t do such a thing, after the last time…but if she’s changed her position on Bremervoord, who knows what else she might have changed her mind on?

He glances up at the high table. Feels a ripple of soft shock to see her eyes already pinned to him, dark and filled with rapt fascination.

_Meve_ , he thinks again. He’s never seen the girl, but looks alone would not make her a substitute for her cousin. It is not her burning eyes and full lips that make her the Lioness. The idea that her intellect, her wit and sharp tongue and ever-churning mind, could ever be replicated and perfectly balanced enough to even attempt substitution—sheer blasphemy, Eist thinks.

He also realizes that he’s merely been staring back at her, for a long moment now.

Calanthe presses her lips into a thin line, then shifts back to Pavetta.

A mystery, as ever. Some half-grown princess could never.

Orsovold is shifting closer again, keeping his tone low. “Lyria is most interested in solidifying a better alliance with the Islands. And it’s willing to offer a crown and a beautiful princess on a silver platter to ensure it. So do consider carefully, sir.”

“Jarl,” Eist corrects easily. Orsovold frowns in confusion and he clarifies. “I am no sir. I am the Jarl of Skellige. A sailor first and foremost, a warrior second. And a husband never, I must confess.”

He simply stares at Orsovold, waits for the man to take the hint, to slowly rise to his feet and slip away.

Another glance at the high table reveals that Calanthe is watching him again, eyes wide with curiosity. She softly raises her eyebrows in silent questioning.

It’s the first time they’ve actually had a moment of nonverbal communication in seventeen months, Eist realizes. The first time she’s acknowledged their ability to connect without speaking.

Eist tilts his forehead in the direction of the gardens, the colonnades outside the great hall.

She merely ducks her head, takes a sip of her ale. Her dark eyes shift around the room, already calculating.

She’ll meet him, then. Answer his unspoken request. Eist waits a few moments, then rises to his feet, slowly disappearing from the hall.

He shouldn’t feel as nervous as he does, emotions tumbling through his veins and head churning too much to form a single, lasting thought. Four years they’ve known each other, countless private conversations have happened between them.

But he knows why. The last time they spoke in private, she’d handed his heart back to him, mangled and bloody.

Mangled. Not destroyed.

Finally, she appears. And in her face, he sees the same sense of fear and hesitation. He feels a wash of chagrin—he put those emotions there, put her in a place where she no longer feels safe around him (and after the night aboard the ship, the night she held onto him like a lifeline, the moment he nearly shattered under the lovely weight of her trust—he had so much and he got too greedy, too quickly, didn’t give her enough time, was too selfish and pushed too soon) and more than anything, he regrets making her fearful, even more than getting his own heart bruised.

Still, she swallows thickly, gently clasps her hands together and takes a single step closer. “What did Orsovold want?”

“A husband, it seems.” Eist informs her drolly. He clarifies, “For the princess, not himself.”

An unreadable expression ripples over Calanthe’s face, made paler by the moonlight.

“Meve,” she says softly. Almost…fearfully. He notes the way her hands clasp together a bit more tightly. She blinks up at him with those impossibly large eyes and asks, “And what answer did you give him?”

Eist tries to keep his tone neutral. “That I am not the marrying type.”

A brief look of pained chagrin flutters over her features, and he knows why—because he _was_ the marrying type, seventeen months ago.

“Still,” she breathes, ducking her head a bit, then glancing out to the gardens. “Lyria is a small kingdom, but still a kingdom that could be yours, with a single word. That is…something to consider.”

“Not for me,” he returns simply.

She merely nods, studiously avoiding his gaze and keeping her lips pressed tightly together. Still waiting for him to cross the line again, he realizes.

He waits (the thing he should have done, all those months ago). Waits for her to make a decision, to choose what comes next.

She wrings her hands and keeps her eyes turned to the gardens. Worries her bottom lip between her teeth. Her mind is churning, he can tell that much—but he can’t possibly imagine her thoughts.

Finally, she blinks, speaks softly. “Lyria has no true might. But they’ve held onto Meve for years, waiting for the right time to marry her off. Skellige would be a pretty prize indeed—an alliance with a sea-faring military would otherwise be pointless and impossible for them.”

Eist hums in agreement. Lyria’s in the middle of the continent. They truly haven’t been of much interest to Skellige, though he’s visited their court several times over the years of Bran’s reign. But it’s always been as more of a courtesy than anything.

“And,” she ducks her head a bit, shifts slightly away, crossing her arms over her chest. “It gives them the distinct advantage of having armies on either side of Cintra.”

He blinks at that, immediately confused. Her expression flattens as she admits, “I won’t let them toss my daughter into marriage, and I won’t take a husband again myself—and it seems that a queen ruling alone has made my nobles and other members of the royal line…quite uneasy.”

“The kind of uneasy that starts wars?” He asks quietly.

Now she smirks. “The kind of uneasy that gives kings of pettier kingdoms an excuse to try and claim more of another land for themselves.”

Eist suddenly understands. Lyria would simply have to claim that Cintra is not being ruled in its best interests—that Calanthe is power-mad and too stubborn to listen to the good advice of her loyal (male) advisors, that she needs to be removed for the good of the nation. Pavetta would suddenly be decreed far too young for marriage.

And Meve, seventeen and with a clean line of connection to the Cintran throne, would be ready to stake her claim. Preferably with a husband already in tow, too.

Eist considers. Then, quietly says, “If you’re right, then Orsovold will offer me Cintra, eventually, too.”

She looks over at him, eyebrows lifting in surprise and agreement.

“I didn’t bite when he offered a beautiful young princess and a small kingdom,” he points out. “But if he truly believes the only way to overthrow Cintra is with Skellige’s might, then he will try again—with bigger bait.”

“I’m not entirely certain he’ll be so foolish,” she admits.

“He will if he thinks we are still…” He pauses, uncertain exactly how to phrase their current situation.

“Ah.” She blinks, as if struck. Quietly, she ducks her head. “Yes. I suppose that’s why he approached you in the first place.”

She seems embarrassed and he can hazard a guess why—the idea that her personal life is so easily read, that it is the subject of gossip and speculation, that it is used against her at every turn. The idea that what happened between them is somehow public knowledge, in some small way.

As always, he wants to shield her, even from the consequences of her own actions. Quietly, he offers, “Skellige is still Cintra's ally, first and foremost. Nothing has ever turned that tide; nothing ever will.”

He isn’t talking about politics, and he thinks she knows it, too. Her head dips, her eyelashes flutter as if blinking back tears.

A mystery, as ever. No, there isn’t any woman who could ever compare, he knows with utter certitude.

She looks up again, eyes shining with an earnestness that surprises him. “I still don’t trust Bremervoord. I just—I need to keep him close, and it’s far easier to smile and…accept whatever paltry advances he thinks he makes. And it’s kept my noblemen at bay, slightly. To think there might be a king on the horizon.”

“Two birds, one stone,” Eist surmises. He feels a small shift in his chest—relief, a flutter of relief, because there’s also something her confession says without words. She still trusts his assessment of Bremervoord, still trusts him, in some small way. There is also a pang of hurt—because she could be spared all of this, if only she’d accepted, if only she’d let him love her, if only she’d let him be everything he wants to be, to her and for her.

She nods in agreement, looking relieved herself that he understands.

“And how should we handle Lyria?” He feels a bit daring, using _we_ , but oh, how he wants to be her ally again, her confidante and friend. “Shall I let him tempt me with promises of an even larger kingdom?”

She considers, gaze drifting out to the gardens as her mind jumps ten moves ahead—he's certain her thoughts contain an invisible chess board, populated with every player on the continent. She’s never not aware of each pawn's placement, of every possible move they could make.

“No,” she decides quietly. “Hope is a dangerous thing. Let us quash it now, let them find us assailable. We are allies, and we will not pretend otherwise. You will sit next to me at the conclave, as usual.”

Then she looks at him again, expression going soft with worry. “Won’t you?”

That face. Has he ever been able to deny it? “As you wish, your majesty.”

She smiles the world’s smallest smile. Gives a single, curt nod.

They will mend, he thinks. They are still slightly uneasy, learning to navigate all the shared history between them, but they will mend. The conclave will bring peace on a more personal level, in some ways.

Then her grin hooks higher, revealing teeth. “A shame you'll lose a chance at marrying my sweet cousin, though. If rumors are to be believed, she’s quite a beauty.”

“They say she looks like you.”

“Exactly.”

He laughs at that, at her arching brow and pleased smirk, at how quietly gleeful she is, having him walk right into the punchline of her joke. At how…relieved she is, to see him smiling at her again.

She has missed him, too, in some way, he realizes.

And it is then that he knows beyond all doubt that he will ask her again, someday. But he will wait. He will wait and he will watch for her signs. He will woo her not with flowery words or grand profusions of love. He will do it with patience and perseverance, with continual proofs that their connection isn’t simply one of fleeting physical attraction or misguided romanticism or political gain.

Not tonight. Not for a long time.

But yes, someday, again.

* * *

They wait, going back inside at separate times from separate entrances. She continues laughing and chatting with Bremervoord, and he watches with a measure of pride. She’s a consummate actor, a skilled player in this game. Not a person in this room would doubt the queen’s affection towards the man.

For a brief flash, she glances over at Eist. Her eyes smile knowingly. As if she expects him to laugh along with her at the whole farce she has to present tonight.

He smiles back softly. He doesn’t care who sees—in a way, he knows that she wants everyone to see, wants everyone to know they are still on the same side.

It’s a small thing, but he gladly takes it. Feels a measure of warmth at the thought of Calanthe, wanting their connection to be publicly known, even if it’s merely for political purposes.

Eventually, the hour grows too late for Pavetta, who disappears with her nursemaid. Calanthe finds his gaze again and jerks her chin, silently commanding him to join her in the seat where Pavetta had sat.

“Tell me a joke,” she commands in a low tone, as he takes a seat. He considers, chooses the bawdiest one he’s heard recently, and she does genuinely laugh at the punchline—though her laugh is a little louder, a little more on display.

The Queen of Cintra is making a point, Eist knows. Showing the world that they are still friends of a sort, still solid allies for certain. And Eist understands the importance of such a point (after all, he remembers every previous conclave, when Lyria has pressed, again and again, for the right to Upper Sodden—their desire for more has never been hidden) and gladly helps her make it. He ducks in a bit closer and offers another low aside.

She grins like a wolf. Then for a full, weighted beat, her dark eyes slide away, firmly fixing on Orsovold. Her brows arch slightly, as if in silent challenge.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to show his shock at the small action.

Because he’s played the political game for ages now. He knows how to make points, and specifically, how Calanthe makes hers.

That look is not how a queen declares an ally, he thinks. It’s more how a woman makes a point to a rival intent on stealing her lover’s affections.

Which only further mystifies him (yes, even as it thrills him, to be the object of her jealousy). She had a chance to claim him in every way, and she adamantly refused. And now that someone else shows interest (albeit from an entirely political standpoint, and even though he’s clearly shown he will not take the offer), she’s suddenly almost…possessive?

She turns her attention back to him, and softly startles, as if she didn’t expect to find him watching her. As always, she quickly slips back into her courtly mask, but Eist feels a prickle of intuition.

It’s always been mutual, this thing between them. He knew that. After her rejection, however, he’d begun to doubt—but tonight, he is reassured of it.

He still isn’t entirely sure why she refused him, seventeen months ago. Perhaps it was more of proving the same point she’s been trying to make, since Roegner’s death, the same battle she fights every day: that she can and she will reign alone, that she can be trusted to rule her nation just as mightily as any king (if not more so). That she is capable of facing the world on her own, no need for support or shelter from a powerful husband.

He knows that. He’s almost always known that, from the moment they met. But he also knows that just because she can endure and overcome, doesn’t mean that she should always have to.

He also realizes, with a bolt of clarity, that while she refused marriage, she’s never outright refused _him_.

She never said she didn’t love him back. Never said that she didn’t feel the same connection, when he spoke of it on bended knee.

Perhaps there is more in what she doesn’t say, than in what she does.

She turns her attention to her drink, but he can feel the wary unease radiating off her shoulders, despite her unaffected expression. The way she almost looks at him, from the corner of her eye.

For whatever reason, she isn’t ready. Eist can accept that. He can wait, can prove himself in the waiting.

He merely smiles and takes a drink as well. His heart echoes the promise he made earlier tonight, hoping one day her heart will be willing to truly hear it: _I love you, Calanthe of Cintra. Nothing has ever turned that tide; nothing ever will._


	7. Conqueror

**Cintra.** **Winter, 1246.**

The sky is practically black, Eist notes with a frown of worry as he stands upon the southern rampart of Cintra's outermost walls. Seems an ill omen.

He prays to every god he can name that he’s wrong. He has been in Cintra for six days now and has yet to see its queen.

His visit has been scheduled for months now. Almost since the end of the conclave in the spring. On the very last night, Calanthe had gingerly approached with an offer that still hurts his heart a little: a marriage between Skellige and Cintra, but not between themselves.

 _Your sister’s son…he is close in age to Pavetta, is he not?_ She'd already known the answer, and they both knew it. Still, he'd nodded, feeling a ripple of apprehension and intuition.

Calanthe had laid out the terms: no one was to know of the negotiations, lest her nobles swoop in and toss Pavetta to some grizzled old lord with Cintran blood. And the union wouldn’t happen at least until Pavetta’s fifteenth birthday—perhaps even longer, if Calanthe could manage to hold the line of nobles and royals baying for a crown with a cock (Calanthe’s delicate phrasing, to the letter).

Eist had understood the need for secrecy and had readily agreed to the delay.

Truth be told, he would have agreed to almost anything—marriage negotiations meant more contact with her, more excuses to send ravens or attend her court.

He may be gladly willing to wait for her love, but he was unable to resist the chance to simply be near her, whenever possible.

Three years. Three years of more time together. A lot could happen in three years. Hell, look how much had happened in the four years they'd already known each other.

His stomach tightens with worry again. If they _have_ three years. If they survive that long.

Eist Tuirseach has never been a pessimist, or a fatalist. But the past six days have been filled with the darkest, most worrisome thoughts.

Much like the weather, he thinks, eyes back to the sky as he walks across the rampart.

He still has not seen the queen. Not because she is ill or avoiding him, but rather because insurrections do not care for the plans of men, and happen whenever they please. The King of Lyria has tried, yet again, to create an uprising in Sodden, in an attempt to prove Calanthe’s weakness as a ruler and most likely claim the entire kingdom of Cintra, or at least take over some of Upper Sodden.

Orsovold never approached Eist again, after the first night of the conclave, when Calanthe put on an almost-jealous show. Truly, the entire week of the conference had been Calanthe rather pointedly making everyone aware of just how close they were (and Eist was more than happy to play along). Oddly enough, through pretending to be alright, they truly became alright again. Now she laughs at his jokes easily enough, drawls and snarks at him, calls him _good sir_ and _dear jarl_ in the most sarcastic tones, and generally is her oddly charming self around him again.

They don’t speak of what happened on the return from Skellige, now two years ago. Half the time he wonders if she’s forgotten it entirely. He doesn’t doubt her force of will—if she wanted to forget something, her mind would do it, without question.

But then sometimes he catches her, watching him with a quiet, almost-clinical curiosity. As if she’s still wary, still trying to gauge him.

He loves her for being a riddle. But he never wants to be one for her. He tries to hide the stars in his eyes and meet her gaze fully, praying she sees only things she can trust.

Will he see that look again, that face again? He turns his gaze to the east, worry rising up once more.

Six days of waiting. And she'd ridden out with her men, two days before that. He doesn’t ask her advisors for news, knowing full well that they wouldn’t share it with him even if they did have any.

He should get back to the castle, he decides. He isn’t the only one stuck waiting—Pavetta has nearly disappeared completely, spending her days devouring books. She’s always enjoyed reading, and Eist can understand the sense of escape it provides, but he suspects some of the allure is that she currently reads in her mother’s private study, curled up in a well-worn chair that Eist assumes is usually occupied by Calanthe.

Still, he keeps to the rampart, walking around the eastern edge. He'll stay up here, high enough to see out to the hills and highway beyond, for as long as possible.

Then, a shout from one of the watchtowers.

He instinctively looks back out, squinting at the horizon. He stops completely, too focused to do anything else but stare and hope.

Riders, finally. Cresting the hill, still over a mile out. Too far away to make out features, under a sky too dark to catch the glint of Calanthe’s famous golden armor (he's never actually seen it, but oh, he has heard the tales). He can’t even be sure which one is her.

He moves along the rampart, keeping his eye on the growing group of soldiers.

The flags are still flying high. Eventually Eist can hear the sounds of men singing.

The Lioness has conquered again, then. He feels a tension ease in his chest. She has proven her might to the world, reminded petty kings and pettier men that an army with a woman at the helm should still be feared, and that a crown, even atop a female head, should be respected.

He finally stops, just above the eastern gate, where the cavalry will re-enter the city. He waits, smiling softly when he’s finally able to make out a distinctly gold set of armor, riding a white horse, no less.

Well, what was once a white horse. It’s stained in mud and blood now, much like the armor of its rider.

The gate rises, and Eist stands a little straighter, though he doubts he'll be noticed, amid the hustle and bustle and shouts of joy from the Cintrans, who all pour into the streets to welcome their brothers and fathers and sons home.

But then, the golden-clad warrior reaches up, pulling off a helmet to reveal a face that—even though it’s entirely expected—makes Eist's heart skip a beat before thundering riotously in his chest.

Her horse has begun to trot now, a sudden flash of energy at the thought of soon returning to its usual pampered quarters in the queen's stables. But somehow she still glances up, meets his gaze with a grin bright enough to dispel the gloom, sharp white teeth stark against the dirty dishevelment of her face.

She truly is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

She reins her mount back into a more respectable pace, turning her attention to her people, who welcome her home.

Eist turns, glancing over the other side of the battlement to watch her horse saunter further down the street, her heavy blue cloak dotted with golden lions shifting with every step.

She is a conqueror, and a queen. Unapologetic, unpolished, and undoubtedly triumphant.

He thinks of the first time he ever saw her face, how even then she bore the air of a warrior—but suggestion cannot compare with actual visual proof, he realizes.

If he ever had any hope of moving past this thing he holds for her, it has been utterly devastated now.

His blood warms again at the image of her, smiling up at him, just moments ago. Chaos and destruction and absolute, unbridled joy. He can also easily admit how well she wears her armor, and how deeply the sight affects him. He'll take that image to bed with him tonight, no doubt of it.

The sky is still steadily darkening under the threat of a storm, but he no longer worries over it.

She is here. That is all that matters.

* * *

By the time he sees the queen again, she dressed in a gown of yellow and red, glowing brightly under the self-satisfied sheen of victory. Her hair is piled in braids atop her head, still damp from the bath, shining almost as much as her crown of rubies and yellow sapphires. Her eyes are rimmed in kohl and her face is scrubbed free of any blood or dust.

Still, she rattles with the same almost-euphoric sense of energy that he felt radiating off her, the moment she looked up to him at the eastern gate.

“Apologies for keeping you waiting,” she offers, once he’s been formally announced and joins her at the high table for dinner, which understandably is far more raucous and more heavily attended than usual.

He returns with, “Any wise man would gladly wait a lifetime, to be rewarded with a glimpse of divinity.”

She gives a wolfish grin. She remembers exactly where the line is from—the very first thing he said to her, the very first night they met.

As before, she doesn’t blush. Merely holds up her goblet, a small toast shared just between them. “To divinity.”

“And fish fucking,” he returns, completely deadpan.

She snorts, outright _snorts_ at that, and he feels a wave of inordinate pride at being responsible for it.

Because this time, her amusement isn’t for show, isn’t part of her need to prove to the world that they are still allies—no, quite the opposite, she ducks her head and tries to hide her reaction behind a sip of wine, tries to keep it a thing between just them.

She hums in amusement. “Here’s hoping your nephew shares your sense of humor. I should hate to be saddled with a dull son-in-law.”

He hums as well, unsure what else to say. But it doesn’t matter—a lord is raising a toast to the glory of Cintra, and the room is cheering in agreement.

Calanthe is beaming again as she raises her own drink in toast. It’s bright and tinged with almost-chaotic delight again.

Eist suddenly understands that she’s won more than just a skirmish against a petty king—she has finally, after so many years, won against her husband’s memory. Her people are beginning to celebrate her again, to laud her and toast her victories the way they used to hail Roegner.

Not for the first time, he feels a pang of pity for how her life has been impacted by her former king. As the Lioness of Hochebuz, she'd been celebrated and sung about. She was a miracle, a child-warrior who defied the odds and became a symbol of her nation's tenacity and determination. She was adored beyond compare, lauded for how her spirit was a hundred times larger than her mortal body, her girlishness somehow a virtue rather than a flaw.

And then she was shunted aside for a country boy who had never proven himself. Pushed to the background as people sang his praises and smiled upon him, as they turned on her and gossiped about her lack of children, later on sniping about her unwillingness to marry again or to force her own child into such a hellish cycle.

And suddenly, he understands a bit more fully why she’s been so adamant against marriage. She had been a golden thing, tossed into dust, disuse, and disapproval, thanks to her first marriage. Why should she expect any different from a second? Why should she ever risk it?

He will simply have to show her that it isn’t a risk with him. That it isn’t even a possibility—that he will always ensure her people adore her above all, that the world is always aware of how capable she is, how golden and bright. That he has no desire to steal her glory, but rather to simply be allowed to bask in its glow from a closer vantage point.

“Let Lyria remember well the lesson they learned today!” The lord continues, growing a bit red-faced as he bellows loudly enough to be heard by every ear in the hall. “Cintra is the land of lions—and when the Lioness roars, the rest of the world trembles!”

More cheers and ale steins banging upon the long wooden tables. Calanthe calls out a _here, here!_ , raising her drink again.

Eist gives voice to the cheer as well, and garners her attention again. She smiles at him, in a bright-eyed, feral way that nearly stops his heart completely.

She’s almost unhinged, he thinks numbly. Absolute, unadulterated chaos. He loves her all the more for it.

Because despite it all, there’s something so…pure about her joy. She’s truly like a child, being told she is good and wonderful again. She isn’t really preening or gloating, no—she’s simply overjoyed to be the center of attention, to be recognized for her skills and her abilities. To be seen as a ruler—not as a _queen_ , as a consort or a pretty thing upon a throne, but a _ruler_ , a leader of her nation, of her people.

Eist has long borne a grudge against Roegner, dead though he may be. It grows larger still at the thought that the man took so much from her, from this beautiful, brilliant thing. That even after his death, his influence infected her life and took so long to uproot.

Still, Calanthe has overcome, as usual. A conqueror in all things.

And she proves his belief that her delight isn’t entirely self-centered. She raises her glass in the direction of another knight, loudly extolling his particular feats in the battle, to more cheers and banging. The night carries on in a similar fashion, various people taking time to toast the work of others, cheers and drinks following. Calanthe makes several more toasts herself, ending with a more generalized one for all the men who took up arms for Cintra’s defense, rising fully to her feet and giving a small speech that sends the room into a deafening show of approval.

For the first time, Eist actually fears the might of Cintra. The woman could command blood from stones, if she set her oratory skills to it. She could whip up an entire country to war without breaking a sweat.

In all the ways he has seen her, in the varied speeches he’s heard her give, he’s never seen her as the conquering commander, the one who rouses rabbles to arms with a few well-placed words.

And despite the slight tremor of fear the display might cause, he cannot help but adore her.

She practically falls back into her seat, obviously quite pleased with the results of her final toast. She turns to him, suddenly fixing him with a keen and cutting stare.

“Shall we adjourn to my study?” She asks, without warning. “I’ve kept you waiting nearly a week, and I’ve no doubt you have other duties to attend—most of which would fare better without much more delay.”

“As you wish, your majesty,” he returns, mind still reeling to catch up. She’s far more sober than he’d originally given her credit for being.

She nods curtly, motioning to the local bard to begin playing a tune. The music begins and soon, so does the singing.

“Come,” she says simply, rising to her feet and slipping away from the table. Eist follows, feeling oddly conspicuous—he’s left various events at the queen’s side, but tonight, she’s still quite the center of attention, and he more keenly feels the looks as they continue on.

They nearly reach the end of the hall when another table merely lifts their glasses and cheers towards the queen. She grins, dips her head in thanks, and then—in a completely irreverent manner, makes an obscene gesture with her fingers. Obviously directed at the defeated Lyrians. This earns her even more cheers and deep, raucous laughter.

She is a soldier, through and through. Eist often forgets that. And who could blame him? He almost always sees her in the finery of court, giving flowery speeches and schooling her tone when talking of peace and prosperity amongst nations.

But tonight, he is vividly reminded of this other side of her. He grins, more than happy to witness it.

It is then that he notices her left hand. How she keeps it against her stomach, curled slightly in an unnatural pose, stiff and unmoving.

He suddenly realizes that he hasn’t seen her use that hand all evening. Her right held her glass for toasts, while her left remained in her lap, even during the feasting. And when she’d ridden into the gates—she’d only held the reins with her right hand, not her left.

They finally move out into the corridor, and she turns to him, almost breathlessly.

“So, good jarl, tell me—did you discover all my castle’s secrets, while I was away?” She flicks her gaze up to the ceilings again. Their little exchange earlier must have reminded her of more moments from the first night they met, he realizes.

He dips his head slightly. “It was as unknowable as its mistress.”

She hums, but offers nothing more.

“Has someone seen to your wrist?” He asks softly as they continue along.

She glances down at her left hand, still against her side. “It’s just jarred. I was pulled from my horse and landed on it.”

The mental image immediately sours his stomach. She must can sense his reaction, because she quietly points out, “I survived, dear jarl. The men who dared to drag me down did not.”

The story of her life, he thinks, a bit proudly.

He’s only been in the queen’s private study a few times, usually as they continued a conversation over some matter being discussed during a peace conference. But those talks have always happened during the day, with sunlight streaming through the high windows, bright and clean.

The hour is late, nearly midnight, and the lack of sun changes the room. Makes it seem smaller, more intimate. It’s all shadows, overcast in warm reddish hues from the fire in the hearth.

The flames only accent the colors of her gown, makes her skin glow even more. She rummages through a collection of rolled up maps, finally pulling one from the bottom of the pile and clipping back across the room to unfurl it over a large drafting table—the last bit is impossible, with the use of only one hand, and Eist steps forward to help. He holds it open while she grabs various heavy objects to weight each corner.

She’s explaining the map’s purpose (a highlight of regions immediately given into Pavetta’s control, upon the occasion of her marriage), but he’s only half listening. She’s standing extremely close, close enough for him to catch the ginger notes of the soap she used in the bath, leaning across the table—he watches her shoulders shift and move beneath her gown and all he can think of is the scar he knows is there, her first real battle wound, from Hochebuz. Her hand taps one area and he can see the bruising across her knuckles, most likely from this most recent skirmish. It seems to only highlight just has delicate her fingers are, how easily crushed and broken.

She’s always been miraculous, he thinks. Fierce and fragile, unassailable and yet so inexplicably vulnerable. She switches between the two juxtapositions so violently, so unexpectedly, it makes his head swim.

“Unless, of course, you have any objections?” She’s shifting back to fully stand again, looking at him with a neutral expression. He hasn’t been paying close enough attention, he realizes.

There’s something wary at the corners of her eyes. Like perhaps she knows that he hasn’t been paying attention—like perhaps she knows he was focused on other aspects of her, rather than her voice.

He feels a flutter of chagrin. He can’t confess that he was distracted by her body, but not in the way she assumes—it won’t go well, either way. In fact, she may hate it more, knowing she was garnering sympathy instead of lust.

So he merely nods, taking a beat to make full eye contact. “None whatsoever, your majesty.”

She gives a small, curt nod of approval. Then shifts, turning her attention back to the map itself.

Three years, he reminds himself. Three years of this—and it starts now, tonight, with proving that he can simply be here with her, without expecting or needing anything more.

But _wanting_ more…that is quite too far beyond his control. His mind flashes back to the afternoon, to the sight of her, grinning so delightedly at the sight of him.

That. He wants that. To make her face light up, _exactly_ like that, every time she sees him.

For now, he will settle for having her at-ease in his presence, when they are in private. So he forces himself to focus on the matter at hand, quickly catching up to speed and questioning for further details on a few holdings that will become Pavetta and Crach’s from the moment they’re married. The discussion continues for over an hour, and eventually, she rolls the map up and gives it to him outright, to take back to Skellige and explain everything to Bran, who will need to give final approval on their measures, even though Eist is technically his emissary, vested will full authority to make decisions on his behalf.

Finally, she rubs her forehead tiredly, giving a heavy sigh. “My mind can no longer tarry, good sir. I can only hope this trip has not been too much of a waste for you.”

He is meant to stay a week, for the first round of negotiations. Tomorrow is the seventh day—and Calanthe had a point at dinner. He has other duties, other responsibilities that await him, and he cannot delay them to make up for the time lost here in Cintra.

“No trip to Cintra—no matter how brief—is a waste for me,” he informs her, quite seriously.

She smirks at that. “Yes, a chance to restock your vessels with Cintran ale is one to be taken at all costs, is it not?”

She’d teased him horribly on the state of Skelligen spirits, when she’d visited and drank in the court at Kaer Trolde. Not that she’d ever voiced her distaste for any other ears but his own.

He grins at the memory (even though what happened just a few days after still causes a twinge in his chest). “I’m afraid I could not admit such a thing, good queen, even if it were true. Skelligen pride is far too great.”

This pleases her. She takes a beat to simply look at him, and then declares, “It has been good to see you, even if only for the briefest of times.”

“A sentiment equally felt and returned.” He places his hand over his heart, bowing slightly. This earns him a huff of amusement.

But it isn’t a jest, not even in the slightest. To sail the rough winter seas, to spend days waiting in utter boredom—all is worth it, for this glance at her, this reminder of just how multi-faceted and utterly fascinating she is.

And that smile? He’d endure far more, wait far longer just for that.

“I must return to my men,” she explains, moving towards the door. “I am certain that when it is time for you to sail, I will still be moaning my way through a terrible hangover.”

“I believe you’ve earned a night of revelry, dear lioness,” he points out.

She glances over her shoulder at him, grinning brightly again. “Yes, I rather suppose I have.”

Now _that_ smile. It isn’t the beaming, unadulterated joy of the one he witnessed this afternoon. It’s got a touch of bite to it, a little more teeth and a little sharper glint to the eyes. But he wouldn’t mind being responsible for that one, either, many more times in the future.

Just…any smile, he realizes. He’d like to make her smile, however he can, as often as he can.

“Will you return for one more drink?” She asks, almost hesitantly.

“Of course.” Again, he’d do anything she asked, when she looks at him like that. He tucks the map away, beneath layers of doublet and winter cloak. She smiles in approval and slips into the darker shadows of the corridor.

They return to the great hall. There is another round of cheers at her return, steins raised in toast. She’s beaming, almost blushing with delight.

Then she glances over at him again, almost shyly.

She _wants_ him to see her like this, he realizes. Wants to be this shining, celebrated queen in his eyes. More so than every version he’s seen before—she wants him to see her as a conqueror, a warrior with the love of her people.

This time, he’s certain he can’t hide the stars in his eyes. He certainly can’t stop the grin from spreading across his face. She is a glimmering golden conqueror and she is _adorable_ , in the most indescribable way.

And she’s actively wanting to share something, with him. That’s perhaps the most miraculous part. For whatever reason, she’d wanted him here, for this moment.

Eist has become fairly adept at understanding when Calanthe of Cintra is making a point, either politically or personally. But this doesn’t feel like that.

 _It has been good to see you_ , her voice echoes in his head. Even now, her soft smile seems to say it.

It is a beautiful smile. On a beautiful queen, dressed in the finest robes, wearing a glimmering crown.

Still, tonight, he dreams of a golden-armored conqueror and a smile that would make the sun weep with envy at its radiance. Though he'd never confess such dreams, he thinks that she would prefer that version, anyways. There was a reason she took off her helmet, when she saw him, and a reason she smiled at him when they returned to the great hall. 

She wants to impress him. Not to intimidate or make a political point (having been on the receiving end in both those situations, he's now keenly aware of when they're occurring). But rather just...to garner his admiration.

He tries not to consider what it means. Why his admiration means anything at all to her.

He thinks of the look she gave Orsovold, the thing of almost jealousy, during the peace conclave. He thinks of the way she smiled up at him, this afternoon. He thinks of her voice when she told him _it has been good to see you._ He thinks of the way she tilted her head in silent farewell, when he finally left the hall, the small final smile she offered.

Three years. Three more years of this, of this potentially deepening into something more. Heavens above, he shouldn't hope, but his heart is built for nothing else. For no one else.

It can't entirely be his fault, he thinks. She is a conqueror. What choice does he have, but to fall, again and again?


	8. Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm sure by now, most of you are aware that I am also currently working on another longfic, Monstrous. My plan now is to update this story every Friday or Saturday, with Monstrous updating on Sunday/Monday and Wednesday. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's followed along this far. <3

**Cintra. Late Spring, 1247.**

Of all the court rumors Eist Tuirseach has heard over the years, this is the one that fills him with fear.

The queen has taken a lover, recently. That part doesn’t bother Eist ( _much_ ). After all, his bed hasn’t been exactly empty—although at least with his dalliances, he knew full well there wasn’t any true emotional connection, whereas he has no clue how Calanthe feels about her lover.

_Former_ lover, if the rumors are to be believed. Some petty knight she fought alongside in the skirmish at Upper Sodden. But he’s rather recently been dispatched from his place in the queen’s affections—and her bed, apparently.

Still, that’s not the part that bothers Eist. What bothers Eist is the rumors that followed the knight’s dismissal. The bits of truth he sees amongst them, with his own eyes.

The queen is often ill, it seems. Retiring early in the evening with complaints of tiredness. Not leaving her chambers til late morning. And she does not take wine at dinner, nor ale. There are dark circles under her eyes and a constant look of worry that plays around the corners of her mouth and across the lines of her forehead.

The general consensus is that she’s finally proving her ability to bear children again—albeit bastard ones, ones that could cause more instability than a mere lack of legitimate sons could ever hope to stir up.

One of her ladies, who over the years has formed a rather close rapport with Mousesack, informed the druid (in absolute confidence, mind you) that the queen has certainly been crying, in private. She tries to hide it, even from her ladies, but apparently she’s going through quite the bit of personal turmoil.

Eist has always listened to the rumors, because they often gave good information on the mental state of all the players involved and made him aware of all the other factors that may affect the general tone of his visit. But oh, he’s never actively wished, with such deep desperation, for one to be untrue.

Tonight he sits at the queen’s table, for the third night in a row, and he can’t deny how much evidence these rumors have.

She hasn’t taken wine or any other spirits, since he’s been here. And they only meet after noon—even then, she looks pallid and feverish, as if she’s been sick. She often nurses a peppermint tea throughout their discussions in her private study. Sometimes, he sees her hand shake, when she points to a region on the map, or when she reaches to take a parchment from him. She still snarks and uses her wit like a weapon, as always, but it's a bit slower, a touch duller around the edges. Almost as if she's shrouded in a slight veil, in some kind of haze.

Tonight a visiting bard attends the dinner, and he soon has everyone merrily singing along. Then, with a wide grin and a bow towards the high table, he starts in on the ballad of Hochebuz.

Eist is aware of Calanthe taking a slow, shaking breath beside him.

“I shall—I think—I need a bit of air,” she whispers, a bit raspily, stuttering out of her seat. She leaves the hall with the determined gait of someone trying very hard not to be sick.

Eist does not miss the guarded-yet-meaningful looks her ladies give each other. They seem to be the only ones who know of the rumor—or at least the only ones who note the queen’s disappearance and make silent comment amongst themselves on it.

Anger rises in his chest. These are _her_ ladies, meant to be her closest companions. Do they not realize how conspicuous they are, in this moment? How anyone could begin to infer things, based on their little looks and arching brows?

Alcise, her cousin and one of her highest ranking ladies, leans in and whispers something quick and harsh, and those knowing looks are blinked away in surprise and chagrin. Whatever she said, it must have been close to what Eist was thinking. The wayward ladies duck their heads and school their expressions into something more neutral.

It seems an eternity before the queen returns. She’s gotten slightly more color back in her cheeks, but it doesn’t make her look any healthier. Her skin has taken on a waxy quality, as if she’s been sweating.

As if she’s been ill. Eist feels another wave of unease.

She takes her seat again, clearing her throat lightly before leaning slightly towards him. “Is your head clear enough to further discuss the revenues from Attre? I’m still not entirely satisfied with the agreement.”

Oh, he is well-aware of that. Attre would go into Pavetta’s—and by extension Crach’s—control, once the marriage was enacted. The port tariffs would, of course, go straight to the crown. But a small percentage would be considered Skellige’s holdings, rather than Cintra’s. Calanthe had pushed and pushed for lower numbers, to the point Eist was ready to throw in the towel and give her whatever she wanted, just to end the madness. And yet…he enjoys the back and forth it gave them, in a way.

“Aye,” he returns softly. “My head is quite clear, your majesty.”

She nods in approval, shifting in her seat again. “Good. I want it settled, before you leave tomorrow eve. Shall we?”

She’s genuinely waiting for him to agree, he realizes with a small flutter of surprise. He merely nods, and she rises to her feet, leading the way to her private study.

Now they are alone, he can’t help himself from matching her quick pace, keeping his voice low as he asks, “Are you well, your highness?”

She stutters a bit, coming to a stop and sidestepping to better look at him down the length of her nose in surprise. Her eyes are wide with shock—she either expected him not to notice, or not to care, and he doesn’t know which bothers him more.

“I am….” She trails off, as if she doesn’t know the answer, doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Her brows are quirked in confusion, and there’s a mildly panicked look, even though somehow, her expression remains almost distant and detached.

“I don’t wish to pry,” he adds softly. She’s reacting to a simple question as if it’s an accusation, as if her answer will condemn her, and in that moment, he knows that she’s well-aware of the rumors. “I just…have a care for your wellbeing.”

What a stupid thing to say, he thinks. But it is a bit hard to find the right words, when those eyes are looking up at him, small and confused and filled with riddles of emotion. Still, she seems to understand—she blinks, nods, and continues on.

She doesn’t answer the question, he notes. She reaches the door to her private study, lightly holding it open as she walks through—there’s a fire in the hearth, which means she’d planned to come back here, even if he’d refused to join her (as if he ever would, as if he’d be so foolish as to throw away any chance to simply be in her presence). 

He’s used to being here now, even late at night like this. There’s something almost comforting in the familiarity of it now. He takes his usual seat, opposite hers by the fire. She moves to the corner of the room, hauling down a heavy tome from the shelf. He turns, watches her in curiosity.

She sticks her arm further in, all the way to the back of the shelf, still filled with books. Comes back out with a corked bottle.

“Something a bit stronger than beer?” She offers, in a light, breezy tone. Whatever she felt, out in the hall, she’s fully recovered now.

He merely lifts his brows. It’s the first time he’s seen her with a drink this entire visit.

Her gaze is sharp, quick, critical. She watches him for a full beat, then says, “Ah. I see the rumors have reached Skellige’s ears, too.”

Perhaps he should feel slightly chagrined, but she’s known for years how well-informed he has always been of court gossip.

With a light sigh—which he suspects is mainly for dramatic effect—she reaches back into the bookshelf, pulling out two small cups. Brings everything to the large drafting table across from the hearth, pours two drinks and turns to offer one to him.

“I do wish to have Attre settled before you leave,” she reiterates. Then she takes her own drink, knocks it back, and sets it back down to fill again. “But not tonight.”

He feels a ripple of curiosity. They often have moments where their discussions turn to other topics, unrelated to the task of arranging a marriage—in fact, if he were being honest, these past three days they’ve spent more time talking about other things, from the state of Calanthe’s hunting hawks to Eist’s adventures at sea to what they both think of the situation in Ebbing. But they always circle back to the reason for his visit, and she’s never pulled him aside without the intention of discussing the contract in some way.

Now she comes to the hearth, taking a seat opposite his. It is the seat she always takes, it practically holds the outline of her body in its cushions now, and Eist finds it interesting—because it is the seat that faces the window, back turned to the door, and that seems like a risk Calanthe of Cintra would never take.

She raises her drink in mock-somberness. “To all my heirs, real and imagined.”

He takes a sip, finds the spirit light and burning. She must have quite a tolerance for it—because again, she practically downs the entire drink in one go. She sits back in her chair, glances back at the table, where the bottle sits. She regrets not bringing it with her, he can tell.

So he rises to his feet and retrieves it. She sits up again, making a small sound of gratitude as he refills her drink.

He sits, quietly watching her. This time, she drinks a bit more slowly, but with a sense of determination. She’s trying to get drunk, he realizes.

Again, she finishes. She sets the cup at her feet, next to the bottle. Sits back, clasps her hands in her lap, turns her gaze to the fire.

He isn’t quite sure what’s happening. She’s oddly quiet tonight, in the same distant, almost-dazed way she’s been since he arrived. But now she's even more distant, even more silent. It's as if he's watching her almost retreat farther and farther into herself, and it's unsettling. She still hasn't said why she decided to bring him here, and he's half-afraid to know the answer. 

She watches the fire unblinkingly, almost as if in trance. 

They must be deep, the waters of her mind, he thinks, not for the first time. He just hopes she'll come back up for air.

She suddenly turns to him. “Are you parents yet living, jarl? In all this time, we’ve never spoke of them.”

An odd conversation. Still, he’ll have it, have anything over the heavy silence. “My mother lives. My father has been gone for many years.”

“How old was he?” There’s something curious in her gaze.

“Two and fifty.”

She nods at that. Looks back to the fire. A beat passes. Eist isn’t sure what to do. He takes another sip of his drink (its awful, he decides, but strong).

“My father was four and thirty,” she announces. “And his father, only thirty.”

Gods, those seem like such young ages now, he thinks. Ten years ago, he wouldn’t think so—he’d always felt that a long life was not for him, but now, at the age of thirty-two, he thinks he’s still far too young, far too undone to leave things now. (Half a decade, he thinks numbly, they have known each other half a decade now.)

Calanthe glanced back at him, something skittering through her dark eyes. “Longevity doesn’t seem to be a trait of the House of Raven.”

Her tone is joking, almost self-effacing. But he’s struck by the reality of her words. She’s two years older than her grandfather at his passing, two years younger than her father.

Roegner was close to this age, too, when he caught the plague.

Still. Coincidence does not make fact. “Your mother lives, does she not?”

Calanthe harrumphs at that, looking back at the fire. “That she does. One greatly suspects that she tarries simply to prove a point.”

“That point being…?”

“She is not a Raven,” Calanthe says, blinking as if the answer should be obvious.

Eist takes another drink, shrugs. “Neither are you.”

She blinks hard again, almost as if affronted. Granted, he technically just called her a bastard.

“You are a lioness,” he points out softly. “Entirely your own creature.”

Her expression softens a bit at that. And it’s utter truth, he thinks. She may be a child of House Raven, but Calanthe of Cintra has always been her own person, has made and remade her own image time and again in a way that most monarchs can’t or won’t. She defies reason—to defy death itself seems a small task for such a creature.

She reaches down, scoops up her cup and the bottle, pours another drink. She still seems perfectly in control, despite the strength of the alcohol.

She’s used to drinking far more than this, he realizes.

“I will begin to formalize our talks,” she announces. She pauses, holds the bottle up in offering. He waves it away. She sets it down, settles more comfortably in her seat. “If anything should happen to me, I want you to have proof that Pavetta was already promised to Crach. I won’t have the lords throwing my daughter to some grizzled old bastard who will make her life a living hell.”

He hums in agreement at that. Pavetta is twelve now, becoming quite a spitfire. Every inch her mother’s daughter, he thinks proudly. Crach will have his hands full, but Eist will be sure that he knows how to approach her with respect, how to build her up instead of break her down, how to embrace the fire rather than try to tamp it out. All the things Eist would do, if given such a chance with her mother.

Calanthe looks into the fire, lips curling into a disgusted sneer. “They wanted her married at ten, you know.”

That isn’t a question, he notes—she (correctly) assumes that he'd heard that bit of court gossip, too. Still, he makes a small noise of confirmation.

“In name only, of course.” She hits the last two words with a particular amount of disdain. “That’s what they always say. But then the little wife _in name only_ goes off to live alone in her husband’s castle, and who can say what happens then? Who _will_ say? No one bats an eye with the wife who isn’t supposed to be touched until sixteen has her first child two years before then.”

She shakes her head at it. “Bad enough she'll marry at fifteen. Poor child.”

“That’s the same age you faced the hordes at Hochebuz,” he points out gently. Still, he sees her point. At fifteen, he'd considered himself a man. Looking back, he was certainly still a child.

“Yes but I just had to kill them, not spend the rest of my life dutifully accepting their cocks,” she drawls. He blinks hard at that, and she gives a single, sharp laugh, obviously pleased at having thrown him for a loop.

She holds out a hand, fluttering in his direction. “No offense to your nephew. I’m sure he is a fine boy and eventually will be a wonderful husband.”

“Quite a glowing endorsement,” he teases, feeling a measure of delight that she’s smiling again, looking more at-ease than she has all evening.

“Well, he is _your_ nephew,” she points out. Something warm curls around her eyes and lips, as pleased and purring as a cat.

He feels a small prick of surprise in his chest, when she looks at him like that. Warm and almost…proud of him, in an odd way.

It is a lovely look to be on the receiving end of, no doubt about it.

She smirks, slowly taking a drink with the kind of theatrical air that implies she knows he’s still watching.

Once the cup leaves her lips, her expression becomes more serious. “Of course, there is still a need for secrecy. But I do want you to have the proof you need, should I abandon this delightful mortal coil before Pavetta’s fifteenth birthday.”

“I suppose a queen should prepare for every outcome,” he concedes. “Even the impossible ones.”

Her faze flicks back to him, surprising him with the raw hope emanating from those dark eyes.

“We shall see,” is all she says, voice rasping in a barely-audible whisper.

He doesn’t like the vein of this conversation. Likes less still the way she drains her drink and pours another.

She’s not drinking to be merry, he thinks. Not to unwind. She’s drinking to oblivion. If she keeps the pace, she'll be sick long before the morn, and for hours after.

With a sudden flash of understanding, he thinks back to the past few days. Her shakiness, her late mornings and pallid complexion. Her peppermint tea, to calm her stomach, her pounding headaches.

“What will they say of you, when you die?” She asks, as nonchalant as ever.

“Not much, I imagine. I certainly won’t have ballads in my honor.”

She huffs at that. “That shall be the final words upon my legacy, I suppose. One glorious battle, when I was little more than a child. And nothing of note, ever since.”

“Entirely untrue,” he retorts quickly, before he can truly consider his words.

“Oh?” She looks up at him, brows arching in amused mockery. “And what, pray tell, have I done to rival such a feat?”

“The battle in Sodden—”

She practically hisses at that, turning her nose away. “A petty skirmish against a petty king and his petty, piss-poor army. I could have won that fight with just myself and two good men.”

“Not entirely on your own?” He feigns light disbelief. It is enough to break the anger in her expression, to turn her snarl into grin again. The good thing about these moods, when she is turbulent, is that, just like water, she can be turned easily from one state to the next, with the right words. He is still learning just how to recognize the moments, how to diffuse them, but he likes to think that perhaps, he’s a little better at it than most.

“Well.” She gives a theatrical shrug, still radiating with a pleased energy at his playful compliment. “I would need _someone_ to hold my cape and shield while I’m busy.”

He chuckles softly at that. Finally finishes his first drink, well-aware that she’s had five in the same span of time.

He shakes his head softly, “All this talk of death and legacy, as if you won’t be the last of us, standing til the very end.”

She hums at that, the sound echoing oddly into her cup as she takes a drink. She finishes it, leaning down to pour herself another. “A fate equally untenable, one thinks. To be the last of your kind, some kind of…relic, too brittle to defend yourself. No. I can say I'd prefer to die much sooner than that.”

She’s fixated, he thinks. Stuck on some strange loop, constantly thinking of her own mortality.

“It breaks the heart, to see someone so full of light and life, only looking towards death,” he admits quietly. He wonders, with a prick of fear, if she will always be this way now, if something has changed inside her mind, something that will become a self-fulfilling prophecy and drive her straight into an early grave.

“Light and life?” Her tone curls with a coy teasing. “My, I do hope you'll speak this touchingly at my funeral feast.”

He thinks back to Roegner's feast. The words she said, the look on her face as she said them. Balks at the idea of even imagining himself in her place, and her in Roegner’s.

She’s shifting again, back into sadder, darker waters. He doesn’t want that for her. So he somberly intones, with a tinge of mocking, “Bold of you to assume that we won’t both be dead—most likely having come to blows over some detail of this marriage contract.”

She snorts at that, dipping her head slightly. With a mixture of amusement and mild chagrin, she focuses on her drink again. “I do hope I haven’t been too trying, dear jarl.”

“Just enough to keep it interesting,” he assures her. And it’s true, mostly. She is trying, at times, and he likes being tried by her, most of the time.

She hums warmly at that. Then she finishes the drink and reaches for the bottle again.

He can’t stop himself. “Perhaps you should—”

“I should _what_?” There’s a sudden sharpness to her tone, her dark eyes glittering dangerously as they snap up to meet his gaze. The challenge is unmistakable, as is her anger.

“Pace yourself,” he finishes quietly. “Perhaps you should pace yourself.”

She blinks in surprise, but her features quickly harden.

“And perhaps you should remember yourself, jarl.” His title is practically spat out of her mouth—this time a reminder of his foreignness, in more ways than one. “You are neither lord nor master here. I am not one of your sea hounds and you are not my husband.”

Not for lack of trying, he thinks, and perhaps it’s a little too plainly read in his face, because she sits back, as if suddenly hurt.

If anyone should feel upset right now, it’s Eist himself. The woman is a contradiction unto herself, as ever.

Still, she holds out her hands, drawing further attention to herself as she mockingly intones, “Perhaps you should take a moment to be thankful of the fate you have been spared, good sir. A wastrel wife, undone and unkempt.”

This is the first time they’ve spoken of it. And it hurts—hurts further still because of her tone, the rawness he hears, the self-condemnation she pours on herself.

He’ll never understand her, as long as he lives.

Still, lack of comprehension does not mean a lack of compassion. Even now, with her face twisted in an expression that violently wars between anger and heartbreak, even with her pale complexion and dark-rimmed eyes, her feverish skin and her fiercely combative stare, she is still the most wondrous thing. Quietly, he admits, “I see nothing that could make me ever regret the words I said that night.”

She blinks hard, and her big brown eyes go soft. She looks away, to the fire again, and he sees the embarrassment so plainly on her face.

He leans forward, gently takes the bottle. A stirring catches his attention, and he looks up—she’s holding out her cup with an air of ashamed remorse, her glistening eyes still locked on the fire and her jaw tight, so tight that the lines in her neck seem to strain.

Gingerly, he takes the cup, too, along with his own. Returns everything to the shelf, puts the book back in place (she’s hiding her drinking, and that scares him—because it means she’s drinking even more excessively than he’d first realized, to the point that she’s pretending not to drink at all, when eyes are watching, so no one will make the connection, and again, his mind wonders why she needs to hide, what she’s hiding from).

He takes a breath and turns back to her, more than willing to reset and find a way to end on a more peaceful note.

She’s still staring into the fire, so small and silent that it scares him. Eist merely watches her, uncertain of what he is seeing. There’s something raw and aching inside her, rattling her bones. It’s painful to bear.

“What have you heard?” Her voice barely rises above the crackling of the log in the hearth, but it seems to fill the whole room. “Mousesack—what little whispers has he brought you?”

So she knows Mousesack is his source. He isn’t surprised. From the night they first met, he had a keen feeling that she always knew what happened under her roof.

“That you…took a lover, after Sodden.”

She stills at that. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t look over at him as he cautiously continues, “And now, he is…dismissed. And you are not sleeping, you are often ill and you do not take wine at dinner.”

He doesn’t mention the crying. Somehow, he thinks that would be the most humiliating part to her. She already looks so ashamed, so wracked with guilt, so angry at her own weakness—no, he’ll never willingly add weight to that burden.

“And?” She prompts. She knows there’s more, of course she does.

“And…that you are with child.”

Her eyes slowly close. Then she gives a small, single nod.

“As always, the lies are far more bearable than the truth,” she murmurs. His heart eases slightly at the confirmation that it’s all a lie, but then clenches again at the thought that somehow, that’s more bearable than whatever is truly bothering her.

“That’s all that will be left, in the end,” she decrees with a somber finality. “Whispers and half-truths. I'll be dead and dust and these damned stories will live on.”

All this talk of death. No wonder she drinks herself into a stupor every night.

“Do you think Pavetta hears these things?” Her voice is so small, so heartbroken. His heart breaks too.

“No,” he answers swiftly, hoping with every fiber of his being that his answer is true. “No, I can’t imagine—it seems that at the moment, only your ladies think such things, amongst themselves.”

“Themselves, you, Mousesack, and whichever dumbfuck lordling they’re currently spreading their legs for,” she returns. But there’s no bite or bitterness. She suddenly seems very tired. “You should go.”

He waits for a beat, trying to figure out why she’s dismissing him—and whether or not she’s truly in a state to be left alone.

“We have been gone from the feast for nearly half an hour,” she points out.

“We have been gone longer, before,” he reminds her, trying to keep his voice neutral, trying not to make her snap again.

“We should be more careful,” she announces with a bored sniff, pulling on her usual stoic mask with a blink. Still, she does not look at him, has not looked at him in such a long time, and he begins to keenly feel the absence of her gaze. “Sneaking off for private meetings, all your visits—the next whisper you'll hear will be that I'm carrying the sea hound's pup.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if some version of those whispers already exists. After all, he didn’t have an outward excuse for his visit this time—they both know he’s here to negotiate the marriage contract, but no one else does.

“You know I'd never let such rumors persist,” he informs her.

“I know,” she echoes. After a beat, she adds, “You’re a good man, Eist Tuirseach.”

Not good enough, he thinks quietly. Not good enough to marry, not good enough to entrust with secrets and honesty. It's an unfair and untrue thought, he knows, but he cannot help himself.

“And.” She shifts, takes an uneasy breath. “A far better…ally than I deserve.”

The way she hesitated, as if she wanted to use a different word, makes him stop.

Friend. She wanted to say _friend_. But she’s too afraid to admit even that much. Half a decade. Half a decade they've known each other, with an immediate sense of comradely connection between them from the start, which has only developed over time, even if there were rocky moments along the way. Half a decade of inside jokes and surviving storms and trusting each other above the rest. Half a decade, and she still hesitates to call him friend, as if he might deny the claim.

_What kind of live have you lived_ , he thinks with a wave of pity, _that you fear to call a friend by its name?_

He thinks of her ladies, the ones meant to be loyal and true. How they whisper behind her back, how they share knowing looks when she leaves the room. He thinks of Roegner (if ever were a man worthy of being cursed) who as her husband should have also been her friend, her confidante, her strength against the world, who in the end did something so hurtful that she became a betrayed, aching mess. He thinks of her advisors—they should at least be allies, but from what he has seen and heard, they are merely vocal and ever-present critics, save a small few ( _two_ , he can think of two whom he'd trust to keep the Queen's interests at heart, who wouldn’t turn against her if another viable candidate for the crown came along).

He's never been unaware of how isolating royal life can be. But now, he feels a sharp pang at just how deeply Calanthe’s loneliness must cut, in moments like this.

Whatever moment this actually _is_ —she isn’t offering clarity and he doesn’t push her to.

“You should return to the hall,” she prompts again quietly. Somehow, without moving, she draws further into herself, becoming smaller.

He nods. Takes a beat to watch her, the dark circles under her eyes even more prominent due to the shadows cast across her troubled face.

He fears leaving her like this. So strange and unlike her self. It’s like she’s cracked open, flooding out against her will.

She’s been like this every night, he realizes. Every night, when no one else is around to see. Drinking herself into some kind of stupor, just to numb it all. Trying to hide it, and earning herself more vicious rumors in turn.

“If that is what you wish,” he says, watching her every nuance. She doesn’t respond, which usually means that she affirms ( _I do not like to repeat myself,_ she once growled, and gods above, he’d give anything for that version of her now). With one last breath to steel himself, he adds, “Will you…try to get some rest?”

Her face flutters, both chagrined and chastised. This woman, he thinks. She bellows and blows, but cannot withstand the gentlest expressions of concern.

Still, she nods.

He'll honor her wishes now. Return to the hall, stop any wagging tongues.

He moves for the door. As he passes by her chair, she reaches out suddenly, grabbing his elbow. He stutters to a stop, looking down in surprise.

Her eyes are keenly focused on her own hand, as if her life depends on it. As if she’s terrified.

“Will you…” She blinks, presses her lips into a hard line. “If we do not see each other again, after you set sail tomorrow—will you remember me well?”

The mere suggestion of such a fate makes his chest tighten. He gently places his hand over hers. “As always, your majesty.”

“Calanthe.” She corrects, with a half-blink—not enough to fully close her eyes, just enough to push the tears back. At this angle, it is hard to see her eyes, but he can hear the tears in her voice.

“Calanthe,” he repeats. For all their closeness over the past few years, she’s never allowed this formality to slip.

He feels like she’s already saying goodbye, in a way. Fear ripples through him again. They say her mother has elder blood, has gifts of a sort. And while no one claims the same about Calanthe, what if she does? What if she has some form of sight, what if she can see what’s coming?

She flexes her fingers into his arm, for just a beat. Then blinks, looking a bit unfocused.

The drinks are hitting, he realizes.

Still, when she shifts her gaze to his face, there’s a keenness, a clarity to it.

“Thank you,” she says thickly. “For…kindness where it was unearned and undeserved.”

He feels his entire heart melt to the floor. That she could find herself undeserving—that she could consider love to be a thing of worthiness, and find herself lacking. It aches.

Still, he merely pushes past the tightness in his throat. “That is the nature of true friends, is it not?”

She considers, then nods slowly. Dips her head and shifts closer, almost as if she’s going to kiss his hand, still clasped over hers. She stills, waits a beat, long enough for him to simply watch the firelight flicker across the back of her dark head and the golden circlet around it, and then slowly retreats, pulling her hand away and turning her face back to the fire, away from him.

“Shall I see you in the morning?” He asks quietly. He doesn’t know what else to say, what else to do. He just wants her to be alright again, wants any excuse for just a moment more with her, just a little while longer to try and mend whatever is broken in her spirit.

She merely nods, small and softly. “Yes, in the morning.”

It’s an unspoken promise—she won’t drink herself into a state tonight, she'll be coherent and capable enough to actually meet before noon.

He nods, and continues to the door. He glances back, one last time.

The chair is so large, all he can see of her is her hand, dangling over the edge of the armrest.

It looks so small. So fragile. So…beaten and exhausted.

A lot to project onto a single hand, he thinks, but he can’t shake the feeling that it’s true.

Fuck it all. He can’t leave like this.

She startles and turns in her seat at the sound of his rapid approach. He moves back to the bookshelf, takes down the bottle and the glasses again. Pours them each a drink and comes back to his seat.

She is watching him, mouth slightly open in a dumbfounded expression.

“Whatever truly ails you, you don’t have to tell me,” he informs her, holding out a cup which she slowly, still-a-bit-dazedly takes. “In fact, I think maybe it’d be better if you didn’t—if, for just a little while, you talk and think of other things. Things outside the current moment. Now, I might not be the brightest and best distraction, but I will try my damnedest. And fuck all the wagging tongues—we’ll stay as long as you need. Because we _are_ friends, and it seems that more than anything, a friend is exactly what you need.”

She blinks at that, as if still trying to process his words.

“To friends, in all sorts of weather,” he raises his glass.

She raises her own, lightly clinking against his. Slowly, she echoes, “To friends.”

She shifts further back into her seat, watching him with a thoroughly perplexed expression. Still, her eyes are curious, a little less flat than they were before.

“I’m afraid…” She blinks, then swallows visibly. “I’m afraid I’m not much for conversation at this point, jarl.”

“Eist.” She has extended him the courtesy of lesser formality, he will gladly do the same.

She gives a small, quick nod. Takes a sip of her drink.

“We don’t have to speak,” he points out. “We can sit quietly and enjoy this last drink. And if you need to talk, I can listen. Or if you need me to distract you, then I can talk. You just…don’t have to be alone, Calanthe.”

She nods again, blinking quickly. She seems wonderstruck at the thought. It breaks his heart.

She looks back to the fire. He takes a sip of his drink, hoping he doesn’t seem too overbearing, too desperate, too…anything. He takes comfort in knowing that if she truly didn’t want him here, he would already know, quite certainly.

A long pause follows. Surprisingly not uncomfortable. Calanthe takes another drink. “Will you tell me a story? A story from your travels. Like you did….”

She stops herself, casting a fearful glance his way, as if she’s afraid of having said too much.

_Like you did, the night we were caught in the storm at sea_ —he knows that’s what she was going to say. The night he knew beyond all doubt that he would ask her to marry him, as soon as possible. The night they sat side by side in the hold, sharing a bottle of wine as he told stories of all the awful storms he’d survived before this one. The last night they were truly alone, before he asked for her hand and she refused.

“It’s alright,” he assures her, even as his heart aches. “It’s not as if I don’t…remember and that you've suddenly reminded me. I’m not bitter or broken. I hope you knew that, long before now.”

Her eyes soften. “I did. I’m…still often surprised to find you’re not bitter, but yes, I do know.”

“How can I fault you for following your heart?” He returns gently.

That beautiful face cracks into the most sorrowful expression.

And heaven help him, his own heart floods with a sudden, soft joy. Because that look tells him so much more—that she doesn’t consider her refusal of his proposal to be an act of following her heart, which in turn means that the desire of her heart had been to accept.

Maybe it’s the late hour, or the drink, or both. Either way, he's rather certain that she isn't aware of just how telling she's being, in this moment. And he's even more certain that she cannot withstand such a conversation, at this moment. Instead, as always, he tries to make things easier for her. “I won’t pretend that it didn’t hurt, but there’s no point in pretending that it didn’t happen, either. It happened, and we are…still here.”

Quietly, he adds, “Aren’t we?”

She nods. “We are.”

“We made a promise: honest with each other, allies against the rest. Let us keep to it.” He suggests. Again, she nods in agreement.

She takes a beat to simply look at him. Then quietly proclaims, “I shall never understand you.”

“If it’s any consolation, the feeling is mutual.”

She hums at that, looking genuinely amused for the first time in a while. She dips her head, “Still, I am…grateful for your graciousness, in all things, as always.”

“Remember that tomorrow, when we talk of Attre again.”

Now she truly grins, shaking her head.

He settles back in his seat again. “Now. Pick any country along the coast. I promise, I have a story for each and every one.”

Her eyebrows lift at that, and he watches as her mind whirls and churns—she’s looking for a challenge, he knows.

“Etolia,” she decides.

He squints slightly, casting his mind back. It’s been ages since he sailed to Etolia. But he wasn’t bluffing—he truly does have a story for every country along the coast.

“Alright,” he announces, giving a curt nod of self-approval for the story he’s chosen. It’s humorous and right up her alley. With feigned concern, he leans in, “I must warn the fair lady, the story does involve details which may…offend the delicate sensibilities of the fairer sex. It may or may not involve a group of sailors and a round of misfortune—albeit hilarious misfortune, depending on whose side you might take—at a house of ill repute.”

He whispers the last bit, adding a touch of scandal to his tone. She grins.

“I shall strive, as ever, not to blush at such things,” she drawls back, the corner of her mouth hooking into a smirk. He hums in approval. She practically wriggles into her seat, like a child burrowing beneath covers for a bedtime story. His grin deepens as he begins the tale.

At one point, he glances off into the distance, trying to remember specific details—when his gaze returns to her, he finds that her eyes are closed, her head turned slightly to better rest against the back of her chair. In her hand, her cup tilts lightly to the side, all but released from her grasp.

He notices the stain upon the cushion, just below where the cup rests in her lap—she hadn’t finished her drink this time. He feels a ridiculous sense of pride in that.

He stops for a beat, smiling softly at the sight. Somehow, she registers the silence, her brows furrowing and her mouth frowning slightly as she shifts, not quite turning towards him again, as if seeking him out in some small way, even though her eyes never open.

Is it possible to have one’s heart broken in the best of ways, so many times in a single eve?

He continues the story—surprisingly, when he gets to a particularly humorous bit, he sees the corner of her mouth curl into a smile. She’s somehow still awake, even if not entirely. Perhaps she can hear the amusement in his tone, rather than actually understand his words.

His story ends, and he simply sits for a beat, loathe to break the quiet spell he’s somehow woven. This time, she doesn’t react to the absence of his voice.

She’s resting now. The lines harrowing her face, even when it is slack with sleep, tell just how long its been since she’s truly rested. He feels another pang at the thought that she’s been without peace for so long.

He thinks again of all her dour predictions, her sense of impending death. He can’t imagine that she’s spoken to many people about such things.

But she spoke to him. She made a point to—she pulled him aside, brought him here, just to talk, to ease the burden in some way. That's the only conclusion he can come to, given the strange path this night has taken.

She trusts him. Of course he’s known that, on some level. But now he realizes that she trusts him more than she does most, even among those who are physically closer, for longer periods of time. She trusts him to the point of seeking him out.

After a while, the fire begins to slowly die. He gingerly rises to his feet, gathering the bottle and cups again.

She stirs, when he takes her cup out of her grasp.

“Please don’t take insult,” she mumbles. “Your stories are quite engaging, I just—”

“It’s alright,” he assures her. “It’s probably best that your delicate ears were spared such bawdy tales.”

She hums and smirks again, not quite opening her eyes. She shifts, as if she may just curl up in the chair like a cat and go back to sleep.

But once he’s put everything back on the shelf and turned to face her again, she’s sitting up fully, stretching her arms overhead. She pushes herself to her feet, wobbling a bit—Eist covers the distance between them easily, offering his arm, which she takes without hesitation.

“My, I’m sure all the whores were very pleased to have such a gentleman in their midst,” she drawls, patting his forearm with her left hand, even as her right tightens its grip on his bicep. She’s all but leaning into him, and he moves slowly, letting her wake up a bit and adjust.

“Shall I walk you to your chambers?”

She hums at that. “Oh, now that would _really_ get the whispers started.”

Still, she doesn’t let go, even as he opens the door to her study and leads her out into the corridor.

“Walk with me a while longer,” she suggests. He merely ducks his head, following her lead.

A long silence ensues. Eventually, she speaks again, her voice still heavy with drink and sleep. “I know I am…worrisome, these days. But I will be strong again.”

“Of course,” he agrees quietly. “You are still strong, now.”

She huffs at that, obviously not quite agreeing. After another weighted beat, she adds, “The…this…lapse in self, it is—it’s not—it has nothing to do with the knight from Sodden. I am not—I am not weak like that.”

He merely hums in understanding. Love. She finds love and heartache a weakness. Again, he pities her.

“I am not weak,” she repeats, this time softly, almost entirely to herself. Then, a bit louder, she says, “I have…moments of weakness, but that’s all they are. Moments.”

“Only moments,” he echoes softly, unsure of how else to agree. She’s still a bit sluggish, still half-asleep.

They are still slowly making their way to her chambers. With a slight ripple of surprise, Eist realizes that he actually recognizes the corridor he’s in.

They get closer—just one turn more, and they’ll be in the corridor that runs past the queen’s chambers. She stops, pulling him back slightly as well.

“How do I look?” She blinks up at him, with the slowness of the quite-drunk. Her hands smooth over her hair, lightly readjusting the thin golden circlet around her head. Her fingertips swipe under her eyes, removing some of the kohl that has seeped into the lines beneath.

“Like a queen,” he informs her, without a hint of dishonesty or sarcasm.

She gives a curt nod. “Until the morn.”

“Until the morn.”

He steps back, watches as her posture goes ramrod and her shoulders square once more. With a deep breath, she pushes herself forward, striding around the corner and towards her own chambers as if she’s perfectly sober, perfectly in-control.

An act, for the guards at her door, for any of her ladies that might still be in her chambers when she enters.

Even in her own castle, her own private rooms, she wears a mask of some sort, performs to some expectation. Eist feels a measure of admiration for her strength and determination, and an equal measure of heartache that she has to use it, has to summon so much just to survive the quietest moments of her life.

No, she is not weak. She’s never been allowed to be weak, he thinks. And oh, how he wishes more than anything to be able to shelter her, to give her some safe space to break apart and be fearful and vulnerable and all the things that she doesn’t allow herself to be, to give her a sense of peace in knowing that no matter how she shatters, someone will be there to pick up the pieces to help her mend herself again—and oh, what he would give to be that someone.

He meant what he'd said, earlier—means it still, perhaps even more. Nothing he has seen tonight has made him regret falling for her, or even regret putting his heart on the line by asking for her hand, despite how painfully it ended.

Because it hasn’t ended, he realizes. They’re still here. She moves at a far slower pace (half a decade, to use the term friend), but she is still seeking him out, still trusting him, still watching him with little stars in her eyes, even if she tries to hide them.

He does regret pushing too quickly, too soon. Scaring her into thinking that maybe he hasn’t fully considered exactly what he was asking of her (after all, she has been married before, she knows better than he what was truly on the table), that he was doing it on sheer impulse.

Calanthe of Cintra is not a creature of impulse. She can shift her moods on a whim, she can be unpredictable and unknowable, but there are extremely few decisions that she makes without full and careful consideration.

Marriage is a risk. Always has been, in Eist’s general view, which is why he avoided it for so long. Marriage for Calanthe is even riskier—she has been burned before, so of course she hesitates to reach for the open flame. Emotional stakes aside, there is the matter of her crown, her country, her daughter’s right to claim it later on, to consider. It is the sort of decision that could literally start wars, and as much as she seems to love a good fight, she does have to choose them carefully.

He can’t help but replay the look on her face, when he claimed that denying his proposal had been following her heart—the immediate disagreement, the shock that he could even think such a thing.

He will ask again. First, he will make it a safer choice, will help her find solutions to all the obstacles she finds—as long as she still shows that she wants to overcome the obstacles, not merely use them as an excuse to not continue this thing growing between them. Then, he will show her just how safe she is, emotionally, in his care. Tonight was the first step, only one of many, he knows.

Unearned and undeserved. That’s how she sees his kindness, his love for her.

He will gladly spend the rest of his life showing her that she’s never had to earn what was willingly offered, and that the simple fact of her existence makes her deserving.

He waits a beat longer, until he hears the heavy oaken doors to her chambers open and close. Silently, he lets his heart wish her pleasant rest, and then he turns on his heel and heads for his own chamber.

_Until the morning._


	9. Ciphered

**Cintra. Late Summer, 1247.**

_You…are…an…arse_. Eist frowns slightly, making sure he translated correctly. He throws a quick glance at Calanthe, seated across from him in her usual chair by the fire in her study. Those dancing dark eyes and unrepentantly gleeful grin inform him that yes, he is correct.

Still, he tamps down his own smile, furrows his expression into something more disapproving, even if she can absolutely tell it’s feigned. “Did you—did you really just…?”

She cackles, brimming with delight. Still, she returns with, “I don’t know, did I? What does it say?”

“You are an ass.”

She hums, this time barely restraining her laughter. “Ah, yes then, I did really just.”

He shakes his head with a huff, and that only makes her grin widen.

“Absolutely incorrigible,” he pronounces, and she laughs again. Then, almost on a whim, he prompts, “Spell that—without looking at the key.”

Her brows raise in slight surprise at that, but she leans forward, to the little table between their two seats, taking up her quill again and scratching across the paper. With a bit of a flair, he takes away the key—a sheet of paper with all the symbols in their new code, next to their alphabetic correspondents.

This was Calanthe’s idea. When he left in the spring, he'd still been so worried about her. He sent a raven, as soon as he docked at Skellige. It wasn’t the first time they'd corresponded, certainly, but it was the first time that they'd done so for entirely personal reasons.

He'd half expected not to receive a reply. Or to get some terse answer, discouraging him from ever doing such a thing again.

But as always, Calanthe of Cintra surprised him.

It’s been months, now. Not every day, not even every week—but they do write, far more often, in vague terms on the marriage contract and surprisingly candidly about their own personal states.

 _We should be more careful_ , Calanthe had warned, when they’d finally seen each other again (and oh, he'd nearly wept in relief at the sight of her, well rested and shining again).

He'd assumed it was her way of putting more distance between them again, lessening the frequency of their missives. But yet again, she went in a far more surprising direction.

 _We should have a code_ , she'd pointed out. _In case other eyes try to read._

A chance to literally create his own language with this woman, something only they would share? He didn’t even blink before wholeheartedly agreeing.

He's supposed to be here for the annual Queen's Day tournament. He arrived two days in advance, ostensibly to better recover from his journey across the sea before setting foot on the tournament ground (thankfully no one has pointed out that he's never arrived this early before).

This is his second night here, and the second night they've worked away on their little code. Calanthe’s mind has always been impressive, but she’s truly shown its depth and dexterity throughout this particular endeavor.

With a slight smile, he glances over to the long drafting table, across the room. There is still a pile of books on ciphers and dead languages—she spent quite a lot of time researching this, before he arrived. It makes his chest blossom with awestruck delight—the realization that she devoted time and energy to this, even before she knew he’d agree, that she’s putting so much effort into creating something just between them, even if it is merely for political intrigue.

But maybe it isn’t. Her missives sometimes had moments of startling honesty—she worried over a meeting with some of the nobles, she groused over Pavetta’s lack of interest in combat skills, she felt a pain in her wrist from her injury at the Battle of Upper Sodden. He thinks that even when she wrote those things, she was aware that they could be read by someone other than him. What might she write, if she knows there is nothing to fear?

He tries not to let his heart fly too far ahead of his feet. He turns his attention back to the woman seated across from him, her dark head bent as she tries to remember a symbol, her quill making small, aimless circles in the air above the parchment as her mind works. Then she makes a small noise and scribbles out the rest, having apparently remembered.

“Read it and weep,” she declares with almost breathless satisfaction, handing over the scrap of paper.

He can’t help but grin. She’s adorable, when she’s like this. It’s much like her visit to Skellige—the memory challenges, the almost-childlike delight she takes in proving her mind's abilities. It makes her cocky, and when she’s cocky, she’s flirtatious.

And _that_ is something Eist Tuirseach certainly enjoys.

He makes a show of comparing her note to the key. She’s written more than the phrase he gave her.

_Absolutely incorrigible…and you’re still an arse._

He laughs out loud, his amusement growing at the sound of her chuckling along with him.

“Alright, alright." He holds up his hands in defeat. “You gave truly proven your brilliance, dear Lioness.”

She’s beaming at that—another thing he has noticed, over the years. She usually rolls her eyes at compliments to her beauty and grace (though she never refutes them, it should be noted), but she does blush a bit when someone notices her brains or her brawn. In truth, he's tried to keep his own compliments relegated to such areas, if only to prove that he’s not just here for her physical attributes (praiseworthy though they be).

“Your turn,” she flutters her hand towards him. “Amuse me with your wit, Eist of Skellige.”

“Might I respectfully remind the lady that I am not her fool—”

“Rather fortunate for you, as I do not spend my time with such,” she returns, with an arch of her brow.

“Fortunate indeed,” he agrees. “To be denied the unending pleasure of the queen's sweet and genial company—I cannot imagine a darker hell.”

She snorts at the dig about her nature, but then her tone softens. “The queen cannot imagine a world in which she would ever wish to deny you.”

He stops his writing, looking up in surprise. She keeps staring at the paper he’s writing upon, as if it’s the most fascinating thing she’s seen in all her life. He can actually physically _see_ the way she’s holding her breath.

“Careful,” he warns lightly. “When presented with such an offer, a man might find himself asking for all sorts of things.”

He’s only teasing, and she knows it. She ducks her head, shakes it slightly. She doesn’t push further and neither does he. They fall into contented, warm silence as he goes back to writing out a coded message.

It is good, he thinks. Where they are now. He gives her time to feel out the edges of their relationship, and she tests the limits, from time to time—and every time, he is sure not to move too quickly or do anything but encourage her steps, no matter how small they seem.

He finishes his message, doesn’t even try to tame his grin as he hands it over. Her eyes are sparkling, aware of mischief afoot.

She reads it and her face wars between frustration and amusement. “All horses are _not_ the same and you damn well know it.”

He shrugs theatrically. They’ve had this argument before. Multiple times.

“You, sir, are trying to start a row,” she points the piece of paper at him in mock accusation.

“I am,” he admits easily. And it’s true. She’s adorable when she’s pissed off; he enjoys seeing it (now, when she’s truly raging and angry, that’s a different matter).

“See, I was right. You _are_ an arse.”

He gives his most winning grin. She fights back a smile and loses. There’s almost a blush to her cheeks, and her eyes are shining. This, he thinks, this is everything. What he wouldn’t give to simply stay in this moment, for as long as possible.

Still, she shifts her shoulders slightly, giving an now-extremely-familiar little haughty tilt of her chin. “Easy to pretend not to care about the breed of your mount, when you ride Cintran stock, the best a man could ever hope to have.”

He can’t refute her claim (hell, she knows—his charger _is_ Cintran, the very one he won in the Queen’s Day tournament years ago), but he merely shrugs, holding his hands up in a gesture of uncertainty. “I’m afraid it’s still just a horse to me.”

“Then take another, for the tournament,” she suggests smoothly, her voice lined with a knowing purr. “Go up to Verden, choose any horse you like—I’ll gladly pay for it, if only to prove a point.”

Of course she would, this woman and her pride. He wants to laugh. He holds up his hands as if to stop the thought. “In truth, it is a theory I wouldn’t mind testing—but you see, my horse is rather set on riding in the melee. I would not wish to crush her hopes. She is a true Cintran, in all things.”

Calanthe grins again at that—both at his subtle way of slipping out of her trap, and his slight compliment to her own warlike nature.

“What a considerate master you are,” she drawls, arching a brow.

“I do have selfish reasons as well,” he admits, with an expression of mock-seriousness. “I do actually intend to win the tournament. I have to regain my title as the queen’s champion, after all.”

She ducks her head slightly, bites her bottom lip. His heart swells at the little gesture, at all the big things it says without any words at all.

Three years, he realizes numbly. Three years since he won the last tournament. Where has the time gone? He points it out, and her expression flutters briefly with unease.

The passage of time. It still worries her. Of course it does. It’s only been a few months since he saw her last; he can’t imagine all her fears and uncertainties have simply vanished since then. She’s handling it better, but it is still something that she has to handle, he realizes.

There is a knocking on the door. Soft, almost hesitant. Calanthe sits up straighter, gathers their papers and hands them to Eist, who tucks them into the book on his side of the table.

“Enter,” she calls, shifting in her seat to look over her shoulder, at the door.

Pavetta’s face appears, lined with concern. Eist can’t help but smile. She’ll be thirteen, in the winter, but right now, she still looks like a small child, with her wide eyes and her hair in a long loose braid.

“Sorry,” she notices Eist. “I just—”

“You have no need to apologize,” Calanthe gently points out. “You are a princess in your own home. Come.”

She reaches out for her daughter, completely turning away from Eist. “What is it, love?”

“I just…can’t sleep,” Pavetta admits quietly, moving closer to stand at the side of her mother's chair. It is far past her bedtime, Eist notes.

Calanthe hums. “Perhaps sleep would come more easily if you didn’t stay up late reading.”

Pavetta rolls her eyes, but lets her mother gently take her wrists and pull her forward.

Eist watches in utter fascination. The kind of softness Calanthe shows towards her child is an entirely different beast than any other version he’s seen of the woman, and he rarely gets to see it. She’s merely holding Pavetta’s hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs over her daughter’s knuckles in a gentle, comforting gesture.

Damn his heart for wondering how this would be, if they married, if they created children of their own. Quiet evenings seated by the fire, watching her soothe sleepy little ones, watching her be so utterly soft and falling even more in love with her. 

“Some tea?” Calanthe offers, after a beat, looking back up in mild concern.

Pavetta nods, but then slides her gaze over to Eist. “If it’s not—I don’t want to impose—”

Twelve years old, and already far more diplomatic than most envoys, he thinks. He places his hand over his heart and bows his head slightly. “I would be absolutely honored by the delight of your company, dear princess.”

She smiles at that—she always finds it humorous, when he addresses her like an ard rhena instead of a child princess.

Calanthe rises to her a feet with a martyr's sigh. “Let that be your first lesson in Skelligen relations, my dear. The Islanders do so love their silver-tongued compliments.”

Eist chuckles softly at that, and Pavetta grins as well. There’s a small box atop the mantel, which Calanthe opens, delicately picking out the necessary items to brew tea and setting them on the table, along with a small mug. For the first time, Eist realizes there’s a cast-iron kettle beside the hearth—he hears the light slosh as she gingerly picks it up with tongs and hangs it on the hook in the fireplace, above the open flame. Apparently, night time teas are rather frequent around here.

Much better than the sort of night time drinking she was doing, when he was here last, he thinks.

Calanthe settles back into her seat, gently guiding Pavetta to sit in her lap. She won’t be as tall as her mother, Eist thinks, and she’s still a whip of a thing, easily folding into Calanthe’s arms as if she were eight instead of twelve.

Calanthe glances over at him, her expression lined with a soft smile. Almost as if sharing an inside joke with him.

This, too, is a sign of trust, he thinks. The world knows that Calanthe is a fierce defender of her daughter, but she’s never outright affectionate or doting in public. He understands why—she cannot look weak, or soft, in any way, shape, or form. Not as a queen who rules alone.

And yet, she trusts him to see this side of her. To know that she’s still also the feral thing who held a blade to his throat at Roegner’s funeral feast, the brave thing who survived a storm at sea, the conquering thing who returned from Sodden golden and triumphant.

“Did you actually try to sleep?” She quietly asks her daughter.

“No, I just immediately decided that I couldn’t sleep, on a whim,” Pavetta drawls back. Eist ducks his head to mitigate his snort of amusement, though they both hear it. He looks up to find mother and daughter watching him, with looks of amused frustration and delight, respectively.

“Pay no heed to the Skelliger in the corner,” Calanthe informs her. “He lives but to vex me.”

Pavetta laughs at that, obviously not believing it. Calanthe looks back over at him, and when she grins, her nose scrunches, almost as if she’s about to wink at him—she’s bringing him back into the circle, back into the conspiracy with them.

“I think the jarl is quite nice,” Pavetta declares. “Far nicer than most.”

Calanthe merely hums.

“Thank you, dear princess,” Eist returns. “May your mother one day learn your grace and perception.”

Now the queen snorts.

Pavetta grins. “I’m afraid it’s too late. She’s far too old—”

“Brat,” Calanthe chides, spatting her daughter’s hip.

Eist holds up a hand. “May I remind the princess, her mother and I are of the same age.”

Pavetta’s grin deepens as she juts her chin out, so much like her mother. “I need no reminding, sir.”

He feigns slight shock as he turns his attention to Calanthe, who’s grinning in a warm, syrupy-sweet way. “Such a cheeky thing. Whoever could have imagined such a child would come from _you_?”

They both laugh at that.

“Truly,” Calanthe drawls. Pavetta sits up a bit, and Calanthe’s hand goes out, delicately rearranging the swoop of Pavetta’s blonde hair across her forehead. “I’m afraid I have my work cut out for me, with this one.”

There’s so much pride and adoration, in her tone and her beaming expression. Pavetta is smiling too. Eist’s chest is so tight from happiness, he can barely breathe.

The kettle begins to whistle. Calanthe starts to shift, but Eist waves her off, rising to his feet to grab the tongs and gingerly remove the kettle from over the fire. He easily makes the tea and hands the cup to Pavetta, who offers soft thanks before beginning to blow on the steam.

He sets the kettle beside the fire, puts the tongs back on their hook. When he settles fully into his chair and looks to Calanthe again, he’s struck by her gaze, by the warm expression she wears as she watches him.

She wants him. Not in a lustful, feral way. The desire in her eyes is softer, tinged with something deeper.

And most miraculously, she catches his gaze and doesn’t shutter her own. She simply…lets him see. Lets him understand. She doesn’t hide.

He stares back, certain he resembles a fish in his soft wide-eyed wonder. But he cannot control his expression, cannot do anything but simply watch her, feeling as if he’s completely at the mercy of such a look.

Eventually, Pavetta says something, and Calanthe looks away. But the moment lingers, hanging in the air around them. They talk of many things—from the yearly migration of the whales to whatever book Pavetta is reading at the moment, to yes, the state of Cintra’s horse stock and the other names on the tournament list. Then, when Pavetta is blinking in long, slow measures, Calanthe ushers her off to bed.

Before she goes, she takes her quill, grabbing another scrap of paper and scratching out something, in their code. The corner of her mouth slowly hooks into a self-satisfied grin, showing off her teeth in a way that is positively wolfish. Then she rises to her full height, quite pleased with whatever she’s written. He's dying of curiosity.

“Pleasant rest, dear jarl,” she drawls, as unaffected as ever. Pavetta wishes him a good night, too, and he returns both sentiments.

The queen and her daughter quietly leave. Eist stays just a little longer, pulling out the code key and deciphering Calanthe’s final message.

_Best of luck, to our champion and tea-maker._

Except there’s one thing. Just before the word _our_ , a symbol started and scratched out.

The symbol for M. For my. _My_ champion. His heart stutters at the realization. 

There is also one extra line beneath: _Still an arse._

He laughs out loud. That woman. He takes the note and tucks it into his doublet.

He'll carry it with him, in the tournament, he decides with a sudden rush of emotion. It’s not a silken handkerchief or a lady's ring, nothing close to a traditional symbol of devotion. But it means just as much, if not more

It’s written in her hand, in the code that only they know, and it’s written solely for him.

 _My champion_. There’s something telling in the choice she almost made—he’s long learned that one can rarely take Calanthe’s words at mere surface value, she always layers her meanings. 

He'd spoken of needing to reclaim his title as the queen's champion. She is quietly declaring that he has no need to reclaim the title—because for her, he holds it still. And she almost claimed _him_ , in some small way. Then she'd mitigated it, included Pavetta in the missive. A little extra distance. Like when she referred to herself in the third person: _the queen cannot imagine a world in which she would ever wish to deny you._

He thinks of her face, for what must be the thousandth time, when he visited last, when he spoke of her denying his proposal. Thinks of her face this evening, watching him with such warm wanting after he made Pavetta’s tea. Thinks of the breathless, almost-shy look she gave him, the night she returned from Sodden and they went back into the great hall, where she was greeted with cheers.

She doesn’t _need_ a white knight or a champion or even a king; she never has. But she _wants_ him. She is, slowly but surely, making that clear. As ever, she is meticulous and methodical, always slightly retreating with every step forward—yet still moving forward, all the same.

Her actions may be small and slow, but her heart—it is so closely paced to his, he realizes. The thought dawns golden and delightful, blossoming through his veins with warmth.

He returns to his own chambers for the night. Prepares for the morrow, for the tournament ahead. She may have assured him that he is still her champion, but he will absolutely still try to win, to have her smile in approval when he is the last man standing, having proven himself yet again.

And yet somehow, he knows that, in all the ways that truly matter, he has already won. She's still hiding herself behind coded meanings and double-edged replies, but she's telling him everything he needs to know, if only he waits, if only he is patient enough to listen.

But oh, he thinks, when she finally sees that he can be trusted with her vulnerability and honesty—what a glorious unveiling it will be. And as he said, from the moment they met: any wise man would gladly wait a lifetime, to be rewarded with a glimpse of divinity.

For now, her ciphers and riddles are enough. He knows the key, knows its creator. He understands them both, plainly enough. And his heart soars at the messages they give.

Even if sometimes, the message is, quite simply, than he is an ass. He laughs softly at the thought, shaking his head yet again. _That woman_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun heads up: between the events of this chapter and the next, the events of another short story "For Hand and Heart" will occur (spoilers, I guess??). I won't be recounting them fully in the next update, so if you want all the details (or just need a refresher, or just want something to read until next week), go check it out.  
> And THAT technically means that this story is also linked to the entire A Summer In Cintra series as well. 
> 
> Also even though the stories are linked, some details won't always match up perfectly. I don't know what to tell you other than I didn't plan for it all to interlock and I'm too lazy go back and make it fit perfectly. It is what it is. Please choose to view this as a charming personality quirk rather than a deep flaw in need of correction because I am too old to mend my ways.


	10. Inclined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder: if you haven't read "For Hand and Heart" (or haven't read it in a while), now's a good time to do so. Just to have a better idea of what happened between this chapter and the previous one.

**Cintra. Spring, 1248.**

Eist isn’t sure that he’s ever been so nervous in all his life. He smooths the front of his embroidered doublet, makes sure his collar is just-so. Mousesack looks on with droll amusement.

“Shut up,” he warns the druid.

“Didn’t say a word,” the man points out calmly, his grey eyes still twinkling.

Mousesack doesn’t _know_ , but…he still knows.

After all, he was here, too, the last time Eist visited Cintra. When Calanthe refused yet another proposal, despite all the ways she'd been so clear in signaling her feelings for Eist and her desire for more.

Mousesack had sat in Eist’s chambers, drinking with him as he complained about the woman’s infuriatingly unpredictable nature. And he was on the ship, the next morning, when Eist arrived, suddenly lighter and brighter.

Somehow, he thinks Mousesack knows about the duel, too. Knows that Eist stood outside Calanthe’s window and challenged her, calling her a coward for ignoring what was between them. Anyone who’s met Calanthe would instantly know that she could not allow such insult to stand.

And she did not. They dueled, and he would have won—had he not seen the absolute terror in her eyes and realized that he never wanted to force her into changing things between them. He'd thrown down his sword, forfeited the match.

And then, a miracle.

She begged him not to leave. Looked at him with tears in her eyes and fumbled to explain why she pulled away, why she could never be everything he needed, nor anything he truly wanted.

_You will be king someday, Eist. We both know it. And I cannot be all the things a queen should be for her king._

He thought she’d meant because she was already queen of her own country, or perhaps even because she was not the sort of ideal that most people considered when imagining a queen. But then she’d shown him more—physically, actually _shown_ him the scar on her stomach.

_You need heirs…and I cannot give you such a thing._

His mind had spun as he’d tried to process both the past and the future. All the rumors about her inability to bear more heirs. All the suitors who would have turned away in a heartbeat, if they’d known. All the wars she’d staved off, simply by being unwed, simply because some rulers still held hope of a union. Her greatest currency as a queen, unfortunately, was her ability to create kings.

And yes, even he'd thought of having children with her, in some of his softer moments. The idea was charming.

But in that instant, he'd known it was dream he could easily live without, if it meant living with her.

He'd told her that he didn’t care about such things—and in that moment, it became utter truth. His love had always been for her, not for any heirs she might provide him, not for the crown she might place upon his head or the political legacy they might build. He didn’t need any of that. He needed _her_.

She still hadn’t believed him, not fully. He saw the look in her eyes, compassionate indulgence—she truly believed, even now, even after everything, that there would come a day when his mind and his heart would change, and he would find someone else to love. Someone who would be better for him ( _impossible_ , his heart had cried).

And yet, she had given him an offer that had blown him away.

 _I cannot give you my hand…_ _But—I could—if you were so inclined—give you my heart._

As always, Calanthe of Cintra was a contradiction unto herself.

He'd gladly accepted the precious gift, had claimed a single kiss as well—though she'd been clear that from that point on, certain lines could never be crossed between them.

And yet, again, a soft miracle of sorts. He'd agreed to her terms—no more asking for her hand, ever again, and nothing between them beyond the chastest of touches—but he'd also gathered his courage and set his: even if they never crossed over into physical expressions of love between them, he loved her still, would love her always, and while he might not declare his love verbally again, he needed her to know that he still felt it, quite deeply. Maybe not in the way of bodies, but in the way of souls, they were lovers.

And she had agreed, blinking back tears and looking so small and soft that he'd immediately wanted to wrap her into his arms again. On the ride back to the castle, she'd reached over, letting their hands twitter and trill softly together like turtledoves.

They are lovers, now. Regardless of the physical limitations, they have recognized their connection emotionally. It took half a decade for Calanthe to call him a friend—and even then, she hesitated. He does not expect leaps and bounds in a blink. The night of the duel, they were more open and honest with each other about their feelings than they’d ever been. But he does not expect some magic spell to be broken, does not expect her to lose her cautious and calculating nature or her sense of doubtful hesitancy. Nor does he want her to. They are part of her, and he loves all of her.

And slowly, they do continue moving forward, he thinks with a swell of warmth. Calanthe has acknowledged this thing between them, proven it is mutually felt, and despite her hesitation at moving any further than that, she is still letting Eist act upon these feelings, to some degree.

He'd returned to Skellige, half afraid that he'd somehow misunderstood, somehow hallucinated the entire thing. He'd sent a missive to Cintra ( _Send us word that you have reached your isles safely, good jarl,_ she'd requested, the next morning as they broke fast together in the great hall) and had held his breath, still fearful that she'd change her mind or otherwise pretend nothing had happened, nothing had changed.

And lo and behold, a message returned, written in their private code: _Pleased to hear of your safe return. Keep yourself well. We will hold dearly the memory of your visit._

Still a bit of distancing, using her royal pronouns, but he could give her that. For Calanthe, she'd already been risky and vulnerable enough—in her language, she'd just given the boldest declaration of affection he'd ever seen.

He hasn’t pushed too hard, since then. He tried to keep their correspondence from becoming heavier, or more involved with their private lives rather than political ones. She still needed time to adjust, he knew.

And now he is standing outside the great hall, preparing to see her for the first time since the morning after their duel. It is time for yet another peace conclave, and this year, he was not able to come any earlier than tonight, the night before the talks began.

Mousesack is outright snickering by the time Eist smooths his hands over his hair. Eist cuts him a quick look, and Mousesack is completely unaffected.

“Your attention to detail tonight is unrivaled, your grace,” Mousesack intones, the corners of his eyes still crinkled with knowing amusement.

“No more so than usual,” Eist counters. Even as they both know it’s a lie.

“As you say,” Mousesack bows slightly, and Eist rolls his eyes at that.

The doors open again. Mousesack gives their names and titles to the herald.

Eist’s gaze is already locked onto the high table.

She is here. She is beautiful, glittering and glowing like the sun.

The Jarl of Skellige is announced, and to his unending delight, the Queen of Cintra all but snaps to attention, her wide, dark eyes easily finding him. Even at a distance, he can see one corner of her mouth twitch, can see the light flush at the neckline of her dress.

 _Lovers_ , he thinks again. This is how lovers act, upon seeing each other again.

It takes every ounce of self-control to tame his grin—there are other eyes still watching, after all. He bows once he reaches the high table, and when he glances up again, he sees her eyes dancing with delight.

“The good Jarl of Skellige,” Calanthe drawls. As usual, she drips with snark, “Cintra delights at your arrival, as always.”

Her tone is sarcastic—but her words are genuine, Eist knows.

Still, he plays along, using his courtliest tone, the one that always makes her roll her eyes (and it does not fail this time, either). “And we do delight at Cintra’s delight, as always, your majesty.”

“Then it seems we shall be overcome by it,” Calanthe returns. Oh, a consummation devoutly to be wished, he thinks. They exchange a few more pleasantries. Then she gives a small nod of dismissal and he makes his way to his own table, feeling something bubbly and light in his chest.

They have a secret. More so than usual. It is theirs, only theirs.

The hours pass. He keeps a weather eye on the high table, occasionally being rewarded by glances and slight smiles. Pavetta leaves early, though later than she usually does—she is thirteen now, steadily moving closer to an age where she will be permitted to stay all night.

Goodness, he thinks. He remembers her being a whip of a thing, carried off to bed in her mother’s arms. 

Despite her age, Calanthe makes a point of walking her daughter out of the great hall. The message is loud and clear: the lioness still defends her cub, and she will suffer no fools to try approaching her. Considering that the next time there will be a peace conclave, Pavetta will be fifteen, it is no wonder that she makes a fierce show—the wolves will circle even more tightly now, Eist thinks.

He also cannot help but think of Calanthe’s fears—her need to ensure Pavetta is wed to someone who will respect her role as high queen, her worry over not surviving long enough to see it happen. He wonders, not for the first time unfortunately, if her agreement to something more between them is also tinged by her need to keep him as an ally, to keep his nephew as her daughter's future husband.

Once Calanthe returns, she breezes directly to Eist’s table.

“Good jarl,” she raises her voice a bit, so other ears can easily hear. “We have reports that the Isles wish to create a treaty with Metinna. Is such a thing true?”

“Aye.” He is a bit wonderstruck at how she knows such things.

“And you did not think to run that by your most powerful ally?” She arches a brow coolly.

She’s playing at something, though he can’t quite figure out what, or how to respond.

“Your silence speaks volumes, good sir,” she drawls. Her eyes are still twinkling, thoroughly amused with whatever is happening. Then she juts her chin towards the long windows lining the wall, which look out to the gardens. “Come. I would like to give you my own thoughts on the matter.”

She then casts a rather dry glance around the table, at the other guests who have been eavesdropping. A few have the good grace to look chagrined—but she’s made her point and set up her excuse. She wishes to take him to task on the matter, and she’d rather do it privately.

He suddenly understands her game. Pushes himself to feign slight indignation. “Your thoughts on the matter—as captivatingly brilliant as they no doubt shall be—will not sway Skellige's decision in the slightest.”

Her brows shoot up briefly, amused surprise washing over her features. She’s pleased that he's caught on, he can tell.

“We shall see,” she declares, as imperious as ever as she glides away, adding a slight swagger to her step as if she’s certain he'll follow.

He takes a beat, feigns exasperation for the benefit on onlookers, adding in a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes, then pushes himself to his feet and gives one last long-suffering glance at Mousesack.

The druid merely opens his hands as if to say _what can you do?_

Eist follows after her.

He comes up to her shoulder, leaning in to whisper. “I do love a good intrigue, your highness, but a little more warning next time could help.”

“Just pretend to be angry,” she hisses back, and he knows it’s for show. No one can hear their words, but her fuming expression tells enough.

“I'm still not sure the reason for pretense,” he returns quickly, furrowing his brow and tightening jaw.

Calanthe redoubles her pace and he quickly matches. She gives a light lift of her shoulder, her tone airy and patronizing. “Because Orsovold has already begun making insinuations from the moment he arrived, and I'd rather have the world thinking we are sneaking away to fight rather than…”

She falters and his heart skips a beat.

“Rather than discuss the contract,” she recovers quickly. Still, he heard the hesitation, and it means the world to him. “Apparently he knows that Skelligen ships have docked more frequently at Cintra’s port—more exactly, _your_ ship.”

Ah. This had always been a possibility—in fact, Calanthe had predicted as much, earlier on in the negotiations. Cintra is indisputably the jewel of the north—and its glimmer definitely keeps many eyes upon it. Though given Lyria's recent attempts in Sodden, it made sense for them to keep a close watch on the queen who'd beaten them back to their own country, just in case she decided to raise her army again and push them further still, or simply take the entire country for her own.

 _If I had a taste for piss-poor beer, weak-kneed men, and milk-faced women, I might consider it_ , she'd drawled, when they'd discussed the matter previously. Eist had laughed at her scathing tone.

Cintra was large enough already, Eist knew. Calanthe was occupied thoroughly with the running of her kingdom, no need to add a fractious additional territory or a war to gain it.

Besides, it would go against the peace treaty they'd all signed. Which technically Lyria had broken by attempting to take Upper Sodden.

Another reason Orsovold was stirring up trouble, Eist knew. Trying to cast blame and suspicion elsewhere. He could claim Cintra was trying to orchestrate a land grab via the conclave, should Calanthe try to bring sanctions against Lyria for their actions in Sodden.

The thought made Eist laugh. As if Calanthe of Cintra would ever choose such a peaceful route, when her other option was to don her golden armor and conquer on the battlefield.

Eist huffs and shakes his head. “I am not surprised that Orsovold’s trying to sow dissent. It’s what he does, the bastard.”

She makes a bit of a show of glancing around the room—anyone watching their little play would see a queen, calculating the best way not to make a scene but also desperately needing to take this jarl to task for his last remark. She shoots him a withering glance (and even though it is all pretend, it does make his heart stop, for a full beat), and storms towards the side entrance, the one that leads to the colonnades and eventually the gardens.

He follows, setting his expression into something far darker than what he feels.

He hears light shuffling behind him. Calanthe’s guards, he suddenly realizes. Once they’re outside the great hall, Calanthe stops and turns back, looking past him to the guards.

“Pemell, stand down,” Calanthe’s voice raises, no longer tinged with false anger. “The jarl is no threat to me. But stay awhile outside. I do not wish to have tongues wagging that I walked alone with a man at night.”

There’s a touch of teasing scandal on the last part, and Eist turns to see Pemell’s amused expression in response. The young man signals to his companion. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Calanthe gives a curt nod, then turns her gaze back to Eist. “Shall we walk, good sir?”

He merely nods, letting her set the pace, which becomes leisurely as they meander through the garden. It’s darker out here, and there’s something about the air that makes him feel quieter, almost reverent. There’s no moon in the sky tonight; the stars are still bright and clear, and the distant glow from the torches lining the walls of the garden give just enough light to make things visible, even if it’s all still mainly shadow.

It’s a different world, almost. Soft and quiet and dark. Nothing like what they’ve had before.

He doesn’t speak, almost a bit overwhelmed by something he can’t quite name. She’s quiet, too. Nothing like the snarky thing that greeted him at the high table, nor the breezy, billowing thing that brought him out here. After a long pause, she speaks, “Are you…you are well?”

There’s something so hesitant, so uncertain in her tone. She doesn’t know what to ask, or how to ask it, he realizes a bit numbly.

It only further cements the reality of this new phase between them. Calanthe is trying—oh, how she is trying—to establish a new normal for them, based on the promises they made, their last night together.

“I am. Quite well,” he returns softly. He feels rather than truly sees the quick nod of approval she gives for his answer.

She ducks her head further, her voice meticulously devoid of any emotion. “And are you—that is to say, I must be quite clear, there are no…consequences if you are not—but are you…still inclined, as you were, upon your last visit?”

 _Inclined_. To be her lover, even in only in matters of the heart, not the body.

He glances over in mild shock—that she should even need to ask, it wounds. But her eyes are fixed firmly on the gravel path they walk upon, her left hand clasped tightly around her right wrist—she seems a woman steeling herself for the worst, a condemned awaiting her own execution.

He stops, struck by the idea that she could ever fear losing him, struck by the weight of her anxiety and uncertainty, radiating off her in waves. She notices his sudden stillness, stutters to a stop herself, turning back to him with wide eyes that shine, even in the darkness.

“It is not a mere inclination,” he informs her, hoping that even in the shadows, she can clearly see the seriousness of his expression. “It has never been a mere inclination.”

Something ripples through her entire frame, a mixture of relief and fear at the same time.

“You did not—” She blinks, tries to rein in whatever emotion is fluttering behind those big brown eyes. “You did not write.”

“I did,” he returns gently.

“On matters of the marriage contract, yes.”

Ah. Now he understands. He did not write to her, personally, specifically about their new situation.

“I did not…wish to take too many liberties,” he admits quietly.

She nods, presses her lips together, glances away. There’s something else she wants to say. He can feel it rattling through her entire body.

“Speak,” he implores, keeping his voice barely above a whisper.

She takes a breath, takes a beat. Plunges forward. “I have…thought of the things you said. In great detail, to great length, to be honest. But I have also wanted to…expand upon the words I spoke to you that night as well. I do—I know that an affair like this, with such rules and stipulations, cannot last. I…do not expect it to. And as I said that night, I do not expect—nor do I wish—for you to remain devoted forever. There will come a day when you return to Cintra with nothing more than an earnest wish for friendship between us, and I…will not keep you from it. So, when that day comes, I ask that you send a raven first. Tell me that we must have a walk in the gardens when you next return. That will be my signal. So that I can…know how to greet you.”

She’s still not looking at him. Still clutching her right wrist so tightly that he can see the whiteness around her left hand’s knuckles.

“For the sake of our friendship—and the alliance between our nations—I am trying to make this as…painless as possible, for both of us.” She adds.

She’s still so convinced that she can’t possibly be everything he wants and needs, he realizes. She’s still trying to lessen the blow, in some way. She still truly believes that his love cannot be something immutable—that without her body in his bed or the crown of Cintra upon his head, he could not possibly find a reason to continue this relationship with her, because her personality and her personhood are so lacking that they are unworthy of love for the sake of it.

He can’t help it. He moves forward, taking her right hand—the gesture startles her, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in, looking up at him with a kind of eager desperation that breaks his heart.

“The day will never come,” he promises thickly. “I have given my word—have I ever faulted upon such a debt?”

She blinks again, then slowly shakes her head.

He feels a measure of affection. “I feared writing the words I wanted to—I feared…overwhelming you with the emotions attached to my devotion. That does not mean that I did not think them, or that I do not still feel them.”

Her eyelids flutter before those dark eyes latch back onto his with fierce curiosity. “And what, exactly, do you feel?”

They have made promises, about lines they cannot cross. But Calanthe had been a bit vague upon where _exactly_ the line crosses over into too much. She will not allow a kiss on the lips, that much he knows. But there is a grey area around kisses in general, he realizes.

Slowly, watching her expression for any signs of distress or discomfort, he brings her hand to his lips. She watches in rapt fascination, almost-imperceptibly shifting closer. If it were not for the soft crunch of gravel beneath her foot, he would not be able to fully swear that she moved at all. He kisses her knuckles, feeling the way her fingers flex further into his palm at the contact. He gently turns her hand, turning his face slightly to press a kiss upon her palm. Her fingers curl into his cheek and he hears the soft, low exhale from her lungs.

He closes his eyes and kisses her hand again. Hopes she understands all the love and adoration he presses into her skin. Perhaps she does—because she takes a half step closer, bringing their bodies almost close enough to touch as she dips her head forward with a little twittering sound.

The sound nearly undoes him completely. He nuzzles into her palm, holding back the urge to bite, to truly taste her, then shifts so that her hand is merely cupping his jaw. Her fingers flex and trill through the stubble, as if relishing the feel of him. He simply looks down, at the top of her head, still tilted forward, still avoiding his gaze.

“That is,” she breathes, voice sounding raspy with emotion. “A bit hard to put into a letter, I suppose.”

He chuckles softly at that, and he can see the tension melting from her shoulders.

“Not too much?” He asks softly.

“No,” she whispers, closing her eyes as she lifts her face, just enough for him to see her expression again. “I mean, perhaps—perhaps it will be the only thing I think of, for days now, but—no, even if it is too much, I cannot bring myself to ask you not to do it again.”

Her honesty is a bit startling, given the years of obfuscating and refusing to acknowledge their connection. He merely watches her for a beat, trying to read her, trying to see if she is pleased or vexed by this confession.

She seems…terrified. A bit breathless, a bit wide-eyed and frozen in place.

“What do you truly want from this?” He asks quietly, half fearful of the answer. He realizes that for the huge leap forward they’ve made, neither seems to actually know where they've landed.

“For you…to be happy,” she answers simply. Then she blinks, struggles to clarify. “Or at least…more content than you have been. You asked—you said, the last time, that you wanted it to be understood that we are…that we will be, in some ways…”

She knows the word she wants to say, even in the darkness, he can see it clearly on her face. But she can’t bring herself to say it.

“Lovers?” He supplies, gently and with a touch of understanding. After all, it took her half a decade to call them friends.

She nods thickly. “Yes.”

The word is so soft, it nearly drifts away on the night air completely. Her fingertips curl against his cheek again, the slightest caress.

“And what about for yourself?” He asks again. “What do you want from this?”

Now her expression contorts between soft surprise, heartache, and mild confusion.

“I don’t know,” she admits. Her hand slowly pulls away, and he cannot help but catch it between his own, still holding her close. She dips her head a bit again, as if her first instinct was to move closer still, but she stopped herself.

“You said you thought about my words at great length,” he points out.

She looks away, the blush evident on her cheeks even in the shadow. 

Oh. His chest ripples in surprise. She thought about his declarations in a very _specific_ way, he realizes (and oh, he cannot help himself, imagining exactly what she did as she revisited that memory, exactly how she let it affect her, and gods above, it is an undeniably wonderful image).

She gives a slight shake of her head. Her gaze softly returns to their hands. She seems a bit...entranced by the sight. “All that time, I have only thought of you. Of how…how it would ease your own distress, how it could possibly bring you joy or at least peace.”

“And what was your conclusion?” He can see the way she shifts at that, at how uncomfortable she is, being so open and honest about her desires and the emotions attached to them. He realizes that in the six years they've known each other, Calanthe has never spoken much about her own emotions, her own wants, dreams, or even needs beyond political ones.

She has an answer, he notes once again. But she is absolutely terrified of giving it. Terrified of his reaction, terrified of getting it wrong, terrified of putting herself in such a vulnerable position to be ridiculed or rejected. Now she focuses on their hands as if her life depends on it, avoiding his eyes completely. He's quite familiar with the tactic now—she becomes like some thing hunted in the woods, fearful of making a move until she knows it's safe.

 _I’ve seen the way you look at me—you wouldn’t look at me like that, if you truly saw me. I don’t want to stick around and watch the stars slowly fall from your eyes as you realize you’ve made a monumental mistake, putting me up on a_ _pedestal._ She’d said that, the night of the duel. Just before she’d shown him her scar. The look on her face, the raw naked hurt in her expression, is still crystal clear in his memory. She’s long been aware of his adoration, and she’s long feared losing it, too.

And why shouldn’t she? It’s the only pattern she’s ever known. First with her people, then with Roegner—hell, she even complains occasionally of how Pavetta is beginning to see her as something less-than (though she does sometimes admit that it’s mostly Pavetta becoming a full-fledged teenager, yet he understands that it doesn’t lessen the sting). Why should Eist be any different?

He’s asking too much of her, he suddenly realizes. Asking her to shoulder the entire burden of defining their relationship now, not giving her enough cues, enough information to make a fully informed decision.

“How about this?” He shifts, simply brushes his thumb over the ridge of her knuckles, pulling her hand just a little closer to his chest and gently bringing her gaze back to him. “You wish for me to feel content. If that would make you feel content and at-peace as well, then I wish the same.”

She gives a small nod, silently confirming his words.

“For me, to be content—it is merely that we do not have to hide our feelings, even if we do not always declare them outright.” And it’s true, it’s the only true thing he asked for, that night. A simple acknowledgment of their mutual affection. An understanding of their connection, nothing more. Quietly, he adds, “I just wish for there to be...openness between us. For us to act as lovers do.”

“But.” She blinks again. “I don’t—”

She stops herself, her chagrin evident. But before embarrassment, there was genuine bewilderment.

 _I don’t know how lovers act._ That was what she was going to say—or something quite similar, he can sense it.

Still, he feels the need to be certain, to clarify. Quietly, he says, “Wasn’t there—didn’t things change, in some small ways, once you took someone as a lover?”

She blinks again. He watches her mind reel over past romances, still completely bewildered.

“No,” she returns simply.

His heart aches at the confession. She’s had affairs, not romances. People who filled her bed, but did not fill her with the adoration and affection she deserved.

She must realize how it sounds, or at least can easily read the look in his eyes. She quickly adds, “It’s just—I cannot—my husband may have been able to publicly flaunt his conquests, but it’s rather different for a queen. I couldn’t…show anything, outside of….”

She trails off, lets her gaze slide away again. Still, she pushes herself to continue, “It was never a thing of affection. All expressions were confined to the bedchamber, no need for anything more. For a queen to be overly attached or maudlinly romantic…it sends the wrong message.”

The wrong message. She didn’t let herself be anything more or less than her public persona, even with her lovers, he realizes. Because even then, even when they were in her bed and in her body, she’d known it wouldn’t last, she’d known they were potential weapons to be used against her later on.

She didn’t trust them, he realizes, not truly. But she trusts him. She trusts him and she’s trying to make this different than all the times before. His heart skitters and leaps at the thought.

He also realizes, quite suddenly, that he doesn't truly know how lovers act, either. He's never touched a woman without intention, without direct motivation. He has seduced, but can he say he's ever romanced? He's never wanted someone beyond the briefest of moments, even if an affair lasted longer than a single night. There was always an understanding that it was a temporary thing, and he never wished or wanted for more. How does he show her all that he feels, all that he holds for her, without pushing into baser territory?

He decides to be honest. "I have never been in such a situation before. I have never felt this way, or loved in this way until now. I have never had...a thing of affection, either."

She looks back up at him, soft wonder lining her features—and yes, fear. She fears what this means for him, what it means for her, for them. Perhaps she is right to fear, he thinks.

"So...I suppose we will chart the course together," he decides. Then gives a slight nod, feeling a bit more certain of the idea. Her grasp tightens, just slightly, and he takes it as agreement. He truly considers the things that have made him pause and think: _yes, this is how we are lovers now_. Then, keeping his tone cautious and calm, giving her plenty of space and time to object or stipulate, he adds, "On ride back to Cintra—that night, after the duel—the way we touched, then. The way we simply…let ourselves touch. _That_ is what lovers do, Calanthe. They touch…simply to touch, sometimes. That is what I want.”

He feels the utter certainty in his bones and follows the line of thought further. “I want to know that if I do touch you—if I kiss your hand in the shadows of the garden, when it is quiet and when it is safe, that it’s what you want, too.”

“I do,” she breathes. “Of course I do.”

The quickness and surety of her answer creates another blossom of delight and hope in his heart. They're both a little lost still, he thinks, but they're finding their way, with every aching step.

Everything still feels so fragile. So cautious and easily broken between them. He needs to be clearer, he realizes. “I want us to be as we were before, in some ways. To still have our friendship, our jokes and our quips at the other’s expense, our competitions and our moments of thoughtful conversation. I just…also want to be able to show affection, sometimes, in the smallest of ways, without fearing that you’ll think me too forward or too…overreaching.”

She nods quickly, as if understanding completely. And maybe she does. Or maybe she’s so desperate to make him happy that she’ll agree to anything.

“You’re not overreaching,” she informs him quietly. Her fingers curl against his grasp again, encouraging him.

“Where is the line?” He asks.

“I’m not sure. I suppose we’ll chart it together.”

There’s an invitation, in her tone, in the way she looks at him, softly hopeful, almost smiling.

He takes her hand to his mouth again. Kisses her knuckles, turns it to kiss her palm, then moves down to her wrist. She makes a soft sound at the new location, flexing her hand and pushing her wrist more firmly against his lips. He grows a little bolder, sucks at the pulse point—she shivers, ever so slightly, and his head spins at the memory of the last time he made her tremble like this, her lips on his, the solidness of her hips between his hands and the press of her fingertips into his shoulderblades, the electric feeling of pushing his tongue past her teeth as she softly gasped. He knows the line has been reached. He pulls back, places a small kiss over the same spot, and releases her hand.

But it stays, fingertips lightly resting against the side of his face. He looks down at her, almost overwhelmed by the shining-eyed wonder in her expression. She keeps her touch light, ghosting down the curve of his jaw, watching her own hand’s movements in rapt fascination. Then she lets her fingers curl, knuckles brushing up to his cheekbone again.

“Thank you,” she says simply, and he isn’t quite sure what he’s being thanked for. She shifts back, ducking her head and clearing her throat. He counters, stepping up beside her again so that they are shoulder to shoulder. She looks up, a bit confused.

“Metinna,” he declares. “Are you truly angry?”

“No more than usual,” she drawls. He huffs in amusement at that. They begin walking again, their footsteps crunching in sync across the gravel path.

She shifts a little closer. He feels the light pressure at his elbow—she’s clasping the sleeve of his doublet, but not truly touching him, not fully holding his elbow or looping her arm through his. He doesn’t act as if he notices at all. She’s always been a thing of slow, cautious steps—and after her confession about her former lovers, he isn’t surprised that she isn’t comfortable with outward displays of affection.

She is—and has always been—a woman built to be loved and adored. It hurts, realizing she’s never truly had such things. It makes him only harden his resolve to pour as much of it as he can over her, for as long as she’ll let him.

He wasn’t really sure how he’d handle this new transition, before tonight. But now he does. She wants them to behave as lovers, even if she doesn’t fully understand how to, and by gods, he’ll give her anything she wants. He doesn't fully understand either, but he'll learn, for her and with her. He’ll find little ways to show the big feelings, and he’ll remind her of the friendship they’ve enjoyed for years now. He'll learn, oh will he learn anything in the world, if it allows him more of this, more of her.

For now, they both need to breathe, he thinks. To remember the parts of themselves that existed before this shift, the parts that brought them this far.

“Orsovold." He changes the conversation yet again. “How do we handle him?”

She sighs, considering the question. “I do not know, truth be told. I have…I am becoming sleepless again. Fatigue truly affects the mind so easily as one ages.”

He feels a ripple of concern for her confession. He knows how bleak things had been for her, last year—he realizes that it was around this time of year, too. A little later, but close enough.

He wonders what ghosts she keeps, in the corridors of her mind. Doesn’t push to know, though. She’s never done well with direct confrontation.

And now, he wonders if that is part of the reason she doesn’t wish to marry again, part of the reason she seems so assured that he will love someone else after her—because this doom still hangs over her, this sense that she shall not live much longer than her legacy allows. She just celebrated another birthday—she’s now three and thirty, like him. One year away from the age of her father, when he died. Two years away from the age of her husband, when he passed on as well.

But again, he doesn’t push. Merely hums in understanding as they walk along in silence for a bit.

“I suppose we should wait,” she suggests, after a small pause. “See what Orsovold says at the conclave tomorrow. Because he won’t wait long, that much we do know.”

Eist hums in agreement again. “He’s already showing his hand with the questions about my visits to Cintra.”

She nods at that. “True, true.”

“And how should we handle that?” He asks quietly.

She looks up at him suddenly, “Would I be wrong to…make light of our situation? To offer the truth in such a way that it seems like a ridiculous lie?”

He frowns slightly, “Explain.”

“If I were to roll my eyes and loudly proclaim that you visit because we are lovers, engaged in a passionate affair?” She clarifies. There’s something worried, almost pained at the edges of her eyes. “To…make it an obvious joke, at the expense of ourselves?”

He considers her idea. Yes, the Queen of Cintra can put on the snarkiest of tones, drip with disdain and roll her eyes as she huffs and claims that she’s madly in love with the Jarl of Skellige, _of course_ that’s why he’s docked at her city so often. No one at the table would actually believe it, if she delivered it to the best of her sarcastic ability (which is quite great). They’d all chuckle softly and shake their heads, fully aware that the Lioness has another game afoot, but all content that as long as they mind their own business, they’ll be safe. Everyone at the conclave is an old hand by now, they know Orsovold and his machinations, even if sometimes they allow themselves to be a part of them for their own benefit.

“No, no, that’s a rather good idea,” he nods softly. Her shoulders nearly collapse in relief. “No one would believe it—you’d never offer up such information if it were true, and in a way, it allows us to…hide in plain sight.”

She blinks at that, suddenly realizing the truth of his words. If she makes the truth seem impossible, no one else will actually see it, after that. They’ll just see two allies, working away on some plan. But they won't guess it's a marriage contract, never in a thousand years. And certainly not one between Pavetta and Crach—Eist isn't sure that most of the nobles even know he has a nephew.

“So…we are agreed, then?” She queries, glancing up at him.

“As always, in all things,” he returns easily.

Now she smirks. “All things? My, has the good jarl changed his stance on horses, hawks, the situation in Beauclair, the percentage of Skellige holdings after the wedding, and the—”

“The phrase _beating a dead horse_ comes to mind.” He flicks his gaze heavenward. Inwardly, he smiles at her soft chuckle in response.

A contented silence follows. For all the recent change, they are still themselves, he thinks with a measure of relief and satisfaction.

“Can Skellige truly not be swayed on Metinna?” She asks.

“Afraid not, my goodly queen.”

She hums at that. “Well, I shall be publicly petulant, but pay no heed. It will be good for the others to see that Skellige is not entirely under Cintra's thrall.”

“As compelling as the notion may be,” he adds. She hums warmly in reply. He doesn’t have to glance over to know she’s smirking.

They are still themselves. But better.

They've made their way back around the garden path, back to the colonnades that lead to the great hall.

“I shall be far too vexed to speak with you for the rest of the night,” she informs him. He hums in understanding. “But I wish you pleasant rest, dear jarl.”

He feels her sudden fluttering, followed by a single, fumbling squeeze of his hand with hers. She wings a small, soft smile over her shoulder as she charges forward, billowing back into the great hall with her usual presumptuous air.

She is still herself, publicly. She is trying to be different, privately. With him, to him, for him.

His heart is in his throat—at least it would be, if it were not already skittering along behind a flashing crown and a train that whisks and skims over the stone floor like clouds rolling over the open sea.

His hand slowly curls into a fist, trying to hold on to the memory of her touch.

Such a small gesture, he thinks, and yet it means the world. She reached for him. She’s reaching for him still.


	11. Ecstatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to readily admit that this update took so long because I kept trying to fight these two and where they wanted to go. I finally gave in (a bit) and here we are. Once again, this story is a surprise even to myself.

** Cintra. Late Summer, 1248. **

“I was not lost. I have never been lost, not once in my entire life—”

“Lies, spurious lies—”

“Watch yourself, jarl.” There’s still an absolute purr to Calanthe’s words as her brow arches in a slow burning look.

Despite the warning he can’t help but grin and push further. “So this afternoon's excursion through the brambles, that was just for our health?”

They’re in her private study now, but the day was spent chaperoning a hawking expedition, ostensibly in an effort to give Crach and Pavetta the chance to properly meet before the marriage. Of course the outward excuse for his appearance in Cintra, nephew in tow, is to attend the Queen’s Day tournament yet again. They arrived two days early and have spent much of their time in the presence of the queen and the princess. Calanthe and Eist have been careful not to hint at any sort of arrangement, rather letting the young pair get to know each other without such weighted expectations.

Granted, the adults are getting on better than the children, but Eist has to admit, he’s enjoying himself far too much to worry over it.

They’d gone through a wooded section at some point and had gotten turned around—at least in his opinion, though Calanthe swore the entire time that she knew exactly where they were.

Hours later, he's still teasing her about it. Mainly because it makes her feisty, and she’s always so much more fun when she’s got a bit of bite to her.

She rolls her eyes and rises from her chair by the fire, scooping up the bottle of alcohol that she still keeps hidden in her bookshelf—they've had their usual two drinks after dinner, and he likes the idea of them having a predictable routine now.

She brushes past his seat, her hand slipping up his bicep and giving his shoulder a light squeeze—a caress punctuated by a reprimand of sorts.

He thinks of how far she’s come, over the months. She isn’t the fumbling uncertain thing, from the night before the peace conclave, when they truly discussed exactly what this was between them now. She reaches for him often, when they are alone. Touches without hesitation—holding his hand or his arm as they walk, leaning her shoulder against his as they look over documents at the drafting table, brushing a hand against his cheek as she walks by, whenever he’s seated by the fire. Not always, but sometimes.

He catches her hand before she moves away completely, and she stops, waits. He kisses her wrist, feeling a ripple of warmth at the way her fingers curl just under his chin.

He keeps his tone low, honey-sweet. “Perhaps you should take a map with you next time. To better know your way.”

She snorts at that, disengaging from his grasp with a roll of her eyes. He turns to watch her walk back to the bookshelf, stowing away the drink for another night.

“You keep this up and I shall be forced to fight you,” she points out, expression meticulously devoid of emotion as she looks back at him. Somberly, she intones, “A lady cannot withstand such slights upon her good name.”

“Then I suppose it’s rather fortunate for us both that you’re no lady.”

She laughs, loud and sharp. Looks at him in warm amusement.

“Fortunate indeed,” she drawls. Her eyes are glittering in the firelight. “For you, most certainly—I'd hand your arse to you in a heartbeat on the dueling ground.”

He feigns slight confusion. “I’m sorry, your majesty—who exactly won the last duel between us?”

“Me,” she returns easily, swanning back to her seat. “You forfeited, remember?”

He chuckles softly at that—her win was a technicality, but also, still a win. And of course, that’s all that matters, in her view.

“Should we have a rematch, then?” He teases, arching his brow. “Settle the matter once and for all?”

“Should we?” She’s still grinning, but there’s something…innocently hopeful in her expression as well.

By gods, she genuinely wants to fight him again. Except this time, it wouldn’t be the awful, aching thing that the last one had been.

It would be much like this, he thinks. Playful and simmering and…absolutely wonderful.

She’s still watching him with such careful, cautious eyes. Even for all the ways that their relationship has changed, one this remains constant: Calanthe of Cintra does not voice her own wants and needs aloud.

Yes, she touches him without hesitation, and happily accepts his touches and tokens in return. But she never asks. Never…expresses directly that she wants them. And now that he thinks of it, she never initiates, either. She may reach for him, but only after he’s done so first, after he’s made it clear that he wants her to. She may have set the ultimate terms for this current phase between them, but everything in-between is entirely up to him. She does not give direction, does not tell him to pull back or push forward. She simply takes what he is willing to give, and mimics his actions, matching them with her own. He sets the tune, she dances along.

He's never truly realized it, until now. Mainly because she’s done it in such a way that has never felt one-sided in the least.

She won’t ask him to fight her. But oh, how she wants it.

He's never really been able to deny her. Never really wanted to, most of the time—and this is certainly no exception.

“Well,” he says quietly, sitting up a bit and feeling an almost-electric sensation at the way she shifts in her own seat, mimicking his movement. “I think at this point, we have no choice, do we? It’s a matter of honor.”

He's nearly blinded by the brightness of her beaming grin.

* * *

An hour later, they’re in the middle of an empty field, their horses wandering off to graze as they lay out the rules of the duel. They’re both more comfortably dressed—Calanthe is in her breeches and padded shirt that usually goes under her armor, and Eist has to admit, he’s still fascinated by seeing her out of her usual flowing dresses and robes.

“Best of three?” He asks.

She gives him a slightly reprimanding look. “Best of one.”

 _I don’t do fair, I do winning_. That had been her decree last time, when she’d set the best of one measure, instead of the traditional best of three that most sparring duels used.

He merely grins, having expected no less. Gives a turn of his sword with his wrist to warm up his arm. He really doesn’t fight as much as he used to, even with tournaments and such—this will be a good exercise for the melee, later in the week.

Calanthe takes a beat to watch, then raises her sword, leveling it at him in direct challenge. Her left brow simply lifts slowly, along with the corner of her mouth.

Oh gods above, he knew this would be electric, but he wasn’t expecting to be overwhelmed quite so soon. He pushes through the feeling of delight and desire to make his first lunge, watching the way her expression lights up as she parries and moves out of the way. Her longsword is heavier and slower, but she’s never at disadvantage, he notes. She spends the first few minutes simply blocking his attacks, chuckling softly in smug satisfaction whenever he lands a particularly solid blow against her blade.

She blocks another blow and this time pushes back, with enough force to send him backpedaling. Gods above, he's always known she was strong, but he’s never _felt_ it quite like this before. She makes a low sound of amusement, raising her brows.

“Don’t look quite so surprised, jarl. I don’t win battles on my ravishing good looks alone.”

He laughs at that, feeling a secondary wash of delight for the way she grins in response, obviously pleased that she’s amused him.

It’s probably the most adorable thing about her, he thinks. How much she tries to make him laugh, when they’re alone. He supposes as queen of one of the most powerful countries on the continent, Calanthe does not get much excuse to crack jokes or be glib.

He likes the idea that she’s only like this with him. That there is a side of her that only he sees. That it is, in some small way, just for him.

“Not surprised,” he counters. “I have crossed blades with you before, after all. I am merely delighted to be reminded of your skill.”

She grins a bit more sharply at that. “Then prepare to be absolutely _ecstatic_.”

She lunges, using the strength of both arms, putting more heft and speed into her movements. It’s all he can do to move quickly enough to block. The weight of her weapon adds momentum and he can hear the huffs she makes with every swing, heavy and soft at the same time. He can’t help imagining those sounds in an entirely different setting, along with her flashing eyes and flushed cheeks.

She’s getting over-confident, a little reckless. The same way she gets, anytime she has a blade in her hand, he thinks with warm affection. She’s a thing of caution and control, until she goes to war. Then she’s absolute madness.

He takes a larger step back that usual, forcing her to lunge out farther for her next swing. It’s easier to turn the opposite way, stepping forward so that he's now behind her.

She makes a small noise of surprise and barely whirls around in time to send his strike glancing off her blade.

She chuckles breathlessly, obviously delighted by his quickness, as well as her own.

He launches an attack and she spins around fully, dropping to her knee to block the swipe, her sword in both hands over her shoulder. It’s flashy and overly-dramatic for such a small parry, and he can’t help but grin at it, at how perfectly _her_ the move is.

He’s still looming over her, and she simply looks up and smiles—there’s a wickedness to it, as if she knows full well the picture she’s painting and what it will do to him.

Gods above, she’s going to be the death of him. He can hardly wait.

He pauses a beat. Leans in, just a bit more. If it weren’t for the two blades between them, he could easily kiss her—and he can tell from her sudden softening expression that she’s come to a similar conclusion.

Well, if she can tease, then so can he. Neither of them is ready for the game to end, so he steps back, letting his sword slowly disengage, the sound of metal slowly dragging across metal filling the silence. Her eyes go wide and he actually physically _see_ the way her breath hitches, the way the muscles in her throat tighten as she simply stares at him.

 _Want_. It’s all want in those dark eyes, and it’s all directed at him.

She lowers her sword slowly, rises back to her feet. He steps farther back, simply waiting, simply watching. She takes a long, deep breath, and just from the way she sets her shoulders, he knows she’s already utterly exhausted herself but is still absolutely going to launch into another whirlwind attack.

She does. But he’s better prepared this time, has more time to react. He lets her push forward for several strikes, then ducks to tap broadside against her ribs.

She stumbles forward, away from him, hand over her side. “You cut me, you _arse_!”

His blood stops entirely. “What?”

There’s no way. He was so careful, so gentle in his tap.

She turns back to him, still holding her side, brows furrowing with pain and surprise as she looks down at the wound. His heart lurches and he moves closer to inspect.

Then she looks up at him and he instantly knows from the glint of mischief in her eyes that he has absolutely walked into a trap. She twirls her sword in her gloved hands, gripping the blade to use the guard as a hook behind his right knee, bringing him to the ground. Her weapon spins again, back into proper place, and her right hand holds the back of his head with surprising gentleness as her left presses the blade flat against his collarbone, solid weight but no bite.

“Calanthe Fiona Riannon, you absolute cheat,” he breathes, and yet, he can’t feel anything but admiration for just how effortlessly she’s brought him to his knees.

“I followed every rule we set,” she points out serenely, absolutely pulsing with smug triumph. “And in the end, winning is winning, dear heart.”

She says it so patronizingly, so dipped in disdain—and yet he somehow feels the affection of her soubriquet.

 _Dear heart._ They don’t use terms of endearment, even if they’ve become bolder in physical displays of affection. And yet she said it now, so effortlessly, so thoughtlessly—it makes him think that she calls him this, in the recesses of her own heart, and has quietly done so for quite some time now.

 _Dear heart._ He rather likes the sound of it, on her lips. Even when it’s said in absolute sarcasm (which, honestly, makes him think she means it more).

He watches her eyes, slowly filtering over his face. There’s a burning to the look, not outright lust but a certain sense of adoration and longing.

Want, he thinks again. She is the picture of wanting—in a softer, quieter way than before.

“We should return to Cintra,” she says quietly. Still, she hasn’t moved in the slightest, hasn’t shifted her heavy-lidded gaze from his mouth. He understands that she isn’t talking about a physical retreat, but rather an emotional one: _we should behave as if there are others around us, as if we’re not free to do as we please, as we truly are in this moment, away from everything, away from everyone._

“Should we?” He hears his own voice, though he isn’t sure how, as he doesn’t have a single thought beyond her face and its current expression.

She lowers her sword but doesn’t move away. She slowly leans in, closing her eyes as her forehead softly bumps against his, the tip of her nose lightly brushing into his with a flutter of insistency. He’s suddenly aware of how heavily he’s breathing, how heavily she’s breathing, too. As if there’s not enough air left in the world to save them.

“Kiss me,” she commands, though perhaps it’s more of a plea, given the breathless rasp to her tone. “Please—just kiss me.”

He drops his own sword to the ground, brings both hands up to her neck, pulling her farther in for a kiss. She makes a small, warm sound and he hates that his hands are still in gloves, unable to actually feel her skin beneath his fingertips.

Her teeth tug at his bottom lip, begging him to open more for her. He gladly answers the unspoken call, lets her tongue push into his mouth. He hears the heavy thud of her sword dropping to the ground, feels the clutching of her gloved hands around his wrists, anchoring him, pulling herself farther in as well.

He could stay like this forever, he thinks, on his knees, being so thoroughly kissed that he can’t quite breathe properly.

Her grip tightens and he understands. He pulls back, just enough to break the kiss, still keeping their noses close together, their lips still a breath apart.

“Too much?” He guesses softly. For all the ways they may touch, for all the times now he has kissed her hand or her wrist, this has always been past the line.

“Not enough,” she whispers back shakily. The raw heaviness in her tone ripples through his entire body—oh, does he feel and understand every ounce of that sentiment.

He lets his thumbs lightly stroke against her neck, and the sound she makes in response completely wrecks him.

“Eist,” she warns. He opens his eyes, only to find hers still shut so tightly. She pushes her forehead more firmly against his, and he can feel the way her whole body trembles.

He obeys—he stops stroking her neck, but he doesn’t actually let go of her just yet.

“You still—” Her voice is thick and rasping, to the point that she has to stop and clear her throat. “You still haven’t conceded the match.”

She’s absolutely serious, he realizes, and he finds himself laughing in response. She’s so predictably over-competitive, even in a moment like this.

She’s laughing quietly, too, brushing her nose against his again—and it feels wonderful, to be this softly joyful, this physically close to her. He tightens his grip on her neck, just enough to make her still so that he can press their foreheads together again.

“I fall to your skill and your charms, as always.” He announces, quite wholeheartedly.

She hums at that. Brushes her lips against his, not nearly a kiss. She shifts back and he lets her go, bringing his hands down to his sides again. They’re far enough apart to truly make eye contact now, but she’s still leaning forward, still nearly at his eye-level as he kneels.

“Remember this moment,” she commands. “Next time you think to get cocky with me.”

Could he possibly love her more than in this moment? And could he ever resist the urge to push her further, the need to argue and tease?

“Which moment, exactly?” He returns. “The moment you cheated your way to victory—”

She huffs at that, rises back to her full height and makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Again, I followed every rule—”

“Poor sportsmanship—”

“Seeing as I am a woman, it’s impossible for me to be a sportsman, so your argument is immediately invalid—”

“Fine, poor sports _woman_ ship.”

“The objective is to win. Which I did.” She grabs her sword off the ground and breezily walks away, putting a little more distance between them. Still, he sees the way her head dips forward, the way one hand gingerly smooths down the front of her shirt, as if she’s still trying to compose herself again.

He takes his own sword and rises to his feet, pointing it lightly at her. “Still, had we done best of three, _as is customary_ , I would have been wise to your tricks and could have easily sounded you in the next two rounds.”

“I guess we'll never know,” she offers with a purr. “Seeing as you lost the one and only round.”

She turns back to him, eyes wide with feigned innocent confusion as she cocks her head to one side. Despite her expression, her voice is low and rich with coy certainty and more than a hint of superiority, “Tell me, dear heart, what is the score now between us? Two to none, is it not?”

He laughs at her predictable competitiveness, even as his lungs swell with warm delight.

 _Dear heart_. He doubts she'll ever call him that again, once they return to Cintra, to real life. But out here in the wild nowhere, it’s lovely.

“I still walked away with a far greater prize,” he admits, trying to sound more playful than he feels. He can feel his heart beat through every inch of his veins right now. He still isn’t entirely sure if this has changed anything between them, and if so, whether that change is for better or worse.

She blinks at that. Goes a little softer, a little quieter as well.

“I'm sorry.” She clutches her sword hilt with both hands, looking a bit like a chastised child. “I know we agreed—”

“If you truly thought I was offering complaint on the matter, I’m afraid you’ve entirely misunderstood a fundamental part of me,” he shakes his head. She smiles a bit blushingly at that.

“Well.” She dips her head, and the way her lips twitch as they try to hold back her smile is the cutest thing he’s ever seen. “While I didn’t doubt your enjoyment, good sir, that still…doesn’t make it fair on my part. I have told you that I couldn’t offer more than certain things, and yet I pushed over the boundaries, out of my own selfishness.”

He feels another ripple of delight. Yes, he saw the want in her eyes a few times tonight (and yes, he’s seen it on previous nights, too), but now she’s admitting it, out loud. She wants him, to the point she finds herself acting selfishly (at least in her own mind).

Quietly, he informs her, “Well, if you ever feel such…selfishness again, please know I will be most understanding.”

She snorts at that and finally, her eyes come back up to meet his, cautious and searching.

“I meant what I said, the last time…we were like this.” Her voice is so quiet, he isn’t sure how it carries all the way to him. “I never want to keep you from…from finding happiness elsewhere. With someone who can be more for you than I ever could.”

All he wants is to be kept by her, he thinks. All he wants to say is that he also meant what he said, the last time they were like this: _there will never be another_. But instead he merely nods in understanding.

Again, she’s watching him with an aura of almost-unease. A beat passes, and Eist gets the sense of something more, another shoe about to drop. There’s a question she desperately wants to ask, but she’s terrified of asking it.

“Talk to me,” he gently prompts. “Whatever is going through that brilliant, beautiful head of yours, speak it.”

“You won’t like to hear it,” she warns. The corners of her eyes contract with pained certainty.

“I would rather know your true feelings on a matter, than be coddled and comforted with lies and omissions,” he returns. And he truly means it—he’d rather always be in her confidence, even if her true thoughts are not the most pleasant or flattering. He wants her honesty, because for Calanthe, it is so closely tied to her vulnerability, and that is something she does not show most of the world.

Her grip tightens on her sword. Her shoulders shift higher, tighter and filled with uneasy tension. He can see the breath stop in her lungs, holding as she quietly weighs the potential consequences of her actions.

Such a careful, cautious thing. He knows the Lioness of Cintra is renowned for her brash and impetuous ways, but he’s seen the true figure behind the legend, and he knows she’s never truly made a move without carefully considering every angle, every possible outcome, like a giant and far-more-significant game of chess.

It is what gives him hope. Because she weighs every outcome, and she still chose this. She knows he is safe, dependable, trustworthy in ways that so many are not.

Finally, she speaks, “I feel…our arrangement, and the ways I keep…slipping, are only instilling a false hope in you, which is far crueler than I could ever want to be. And I _am_ being selfish, in many ways. Because I do…want. I want your affection and your devotion and I cannot give anything in return—”

He opens his mouth to object and she holds up a hand to stop him, to quickly correct, “I cannot give you _enough_ in return. You deserve more than I could ever give, more than I could ever be, and I…I know it is your own choice, and you are not helpless—but I am…terrified that I am only making things worse for you, in the end.”

She lets out a deep breath, almost exhausted by her confession. He realizes, a bit numbly, that this is probably the most open she’s been since the last time they dueled.

He takes a beat, his mind still whirling with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Because yes, her little moments have given him hope—but he loved her, even when it was hopeless, and his feelings for her have never depended on her feelings for him in return. Somehow, he knows confessing such a thing will only bring her more agony. And yet, how can he lie to her, when she’s being so painfully honest with him? How can he betray her trust, even in the smallest of ways?

He also realizes, with a flash of soft delight, that tonight is the first time she’s truly voiced her desire for him, truly initiated rather than simply reacted to his own actions.

She holds back, still. The delight becomes tinged with sorrow. Because she loves him, in her own complex and confusing way. Because she also still fears losing him, just as deeply as she always has, even as she wishes for him to be lost, to find happiness elsewhere. Because she wants to keep him just as deeply as she wants to drive him away, because she sees herself as a punishment, not a reward, because she sees him as someone who needed to be saved from her love, rather than saved by it.

Pushing back the tightness in his throat, he gently prompts, “Do I still hold your affections?”

“Yes,” she answers, as easily as breathing. And even though he already knew the answer, the way she gives it still sends a ripple of warmth through his lungs.

“Then I already have far more than I deserve. If I wanted anything else, anything different than exactly what you have willingly offered, I would go elsewhere. But I am here.” He keeps his voice firm, just enough to brook neither refusals nor rebuttals. He holds her gaze, hoping she can see how serious he is, how clear-headed and completely aware of all the implications. “I knew what I agreed to, the night we chose this. I have been many things, but a starry-eyed fool isn’t one.”

She stares for a beat. Then blinks, gives a curt nod, turns and whistles sharply for the horses, who come trotting up again.

How could he ever grow bored, with such a riddle before him? He could know her for a thousand years and still not know all the thoughts in her head, he’s certain of it.

Maybe that is part of what she’s trying to spare him from, he thinks. And yet he still doesn’t wish to be spared.

He simply watches her—her back is turned to him as she quietly speaks to the horses, who nicker and butt their noses against her, as if vying for her attention. She seems small and sad again, regretful and withdrawn. This wasn’t supposed to be how the night ended. He suddenly just wants to hold her, to make her feel light and breathless, the way they were just after the kiss, laughing softly together.

He sheaths his sword and moves closer. The horses stir slightly at his approach, but she doesn’t turn back towards him, doesn’t show any sign of acknowledgement whatsoever.

He considers the impulse he felt, just moments ago. Pushes through to action and lightly places his hands on her upper arms. She stills, turns her head slightly to the side, slightly more towards him.

He simply leans in, kissing her temple softly. She shifts, slightly, just a breath closer. There’s such softness in the small gesture, his throat tightens with emotion again.

He keeps his lips close to her skin as he quietly pronounces, “I am not helplessly waiting. I’m not waiting at all. I’m simply enjoying every moment with you—ecstatically, without needing to hope for more. This is enough. How could this ever not be enough?”

She makes a small noise, relieved and overwhelmed, and fully pushes back against his chest, shifting and pressing her temple against his mouth again, seeking him out. He tightens his grip on her upper arms, but doesn’t do anything else. They stay like that for a beat, simply resting.

This is enough, he thinks softly. And he finds a measure of surprise at how true it is—it’s true, absolutely true, and it’s terrifying to realize, in a way. He wouldn’t consider himself entirely content with their arrangement, and he doesn’t think she is, either, and somehow, that has always made it more bearable. But there is no guarantee that a love affair would last (does he even know _how_ to make it last, how to be anything more than a fleeting fancy, a few nights of shared passion and then off to another place, another face—what if _he_ ruins it, ruins them, what if he is the one incapable of truly giving her everything she deserves?), and he has no doubt that Calanthe would be the sort to blot him from her memory and her presence, if such a thing were to happen.

If he must choose between being her lover for a season or being by her side as a friend and confidante for a lifetime, then he will choose the longer path. He knows that his love for her will not change in the slightest, but at least it wouldn’t be marred by the memory of hurting her, either.

He wants to tell her all these things. Still hesitates, still feels the tug of fear in his chest—because more than anything, he fears giving her more reason to withdraw, to retreat, to abandon him anyways.

And this is why he understands her hesitancy so deeply. He understands the fear of loss, the understanding that whatever exists between them can never be found again in another. They’re holding some fragile, precious thing between their hearts, and the fear of shattering it is nearly paralyzing.

Her voice breaks the stillness. “Do you…still…take lovers?”

“Other lovers?” He gently corrects, barely lifting his mouth from her temple. He can feel the way her body ripples at that, and he knows that if he could truly see her face, she’d be blushing.

“Yes,” she says simply. He feels her shoulders shift, as if steeling herself.

“Do you?” He asks quietly.

“I asked you first.”

He takes a beat to consider his answer. In truth, he hasn’t even looked at another woman since the last time they dueled—and it’s been far longer than that since he’s seduced one, despite the stories, despite the gossip. He simply hasn’t been interested in chasing anyone else, even for a temporary fling. But he isn’t sure she’d be pleased to hear such a thing. And yet he can’t lie.

“I haven’t need of any others,” he says simply.

She hums. Her shoulders relax, ever-so-slightly, and he realizes that she would have been devastated if he’d answered otherwise. Once again, what Calanthe of Cintra says she wants and what she actually wants are not entirely the same thing.

“And you?” He whispers hoarsely, half-afraid of the question and not sure which answer would make him more content. “Do you still take other lovers?”

She dips her head slightly. “No.”

She takes a slight, shaky breath and he waits, knowing there is more to come.

“I haven’t any need, either,” she confesses softly. “And perhaps—that is the most terrifying part. Even in my…thoughts, I think only of....”

She doesn’t finish the statement, but he knows the rest, and gods above, it’s nearly as heady as the kiss she gave him. He closes his eyes softly, pressing his lips to her temple again, silently thanking her for this gift.

The gesture seems to embolden her, because she quickly, breathlessly adds, “Tonight, that kiss—it wasn’t some random moment of indiscretion. I have…I have thought about that, for far longer, and I—I think about it still.”

The last bit pushes out in a barely-audible sigh, and he feels her whole body slacken, as if she may collapse entirely under the weight of her own confession.

“It will hold my thoughts for quite some time, too,” he admits softly. If she can be bold and open in her declarations, the least he can do is be equally open in his assurances. “While I am content and while this is enough, I will not deny that I am still…moved by you. As I have been, from the moment we met. And I want both of us to look back on the moment with delight, rather than regret. And I don't...I don't want you to fear that this means things _have_ to change between us, unless you want them to.”

She makes a small sound of understanding. Her hands come up, lightly placing over his. They are in agreement.

Then her tone shifts into something more concerned again. “You still…you cannot…avoid the chance to take another lover, for my sake. Promise me that?”

He feels a mixture of frustration and pity for this woman and her overwhelming inability to simply let herself be loved.

“I do need you to understand that I can do things for selfish reasons, too.” He announces quietly. “I’m not some great martyr for love, Calanthe.”

She hums at that, and he isn’t sure if she agrees or disagrees. She tightens her grip on his hands, pushes farther into his chest ever-so-slightly, and then moves forward, quietly disengaging from his grasp.

He mimics her movements, taking his horse’s bridle from the pommel of his saddle and getting the horse to take its bit again. She doesn’t look at him until they’re both in the saddle, turning back towards Cintra.

She’s grinning again, and he can sense a taunt on the way.

“Now that my honor has been proven and restored upon the battlefield, I think it’s high time you admitted your wrongs against my character—I was never lost in that wood, not for a single moment, and you must concede the point.”

He laughs at that, so loudly and unexpectedly that the horses both startle a little. “Your honor has certainly been proven—or rather the lack of it, with your underhanded ways—”

“Again, I point out to the good gentleman from Skellige—I followed _every rule_ set upon the match, to the letter—”

“But not in the spirit intended—”

“Intent is open to interpretation. My fervor to prove my honor pushed me to be resourceful in bringing it about—that is neither sin nor vice. If anything, such fervor only proves my honor further. A dishonorable woman would not go to such great lengths.”

He’s grinning so deeply that his cheeks twinge. She’s using such proper and mildly disdainful tones, every inch a queen and every ounce a manipulative little minx, both of which are intentional.

How could this not be enough? He thinks again. She’s awful in the most charming ways, grinning over at him with such unmitigated delight. She takes a full beat to simply watch him, watching her. Then she ducks her head as her smile deepens—and even in the moonlight, he can see the blush in her cheeks.

 _I think about it still_ , her voice echoes in his head and his heart. And he does, too—his blood warms at the memory of her nose nuzzling against his, her voice rasping with raw, shaking want: _kiss me, please._

He hadn’t lied, when he said this was enough, and he wasn’t helplessly waiting for more. But he can’t deny the sense of hope this gives him. The sense of hope _she_ gives him, in all the things she doesn’t say, in all the things she says without words.

As if proving his own point, she gently tugs the reins, guiding her horse closer to his. She reaches out, placing the back of her right hand over the back of his left for a beat before turning it over and lightly pushing her fingertips over the ridge of his knuckles, shifting further and sliding her fingers between his. They’re both still wearing gloves and there’s less sensation, but the mere sight makes his chest tighten and his blood hum.

She turns the smallest things into grand declarations—there’s no doubting the desire in that simple action. He turns his hand over, too, and she places hers in his again. Fingers interweave and he presses into her, letting his thumb stroke the side of her hand.

They stay like that, letting their hands meld and reform and make love, all the way back to Cintra. He feels a measure of satisfaction, knowing that things have not truly changed between them—or if they have, it is only for the better. She hesitates, but she does not retreat. For whatever reason, she still needs the reassurance that he can leave, that he will leave if he chooses, that she isn't holding him back from someone else, from something more. He shouldn't be surprised that Calanthe of Cintra would want the exact opposite of most women, that she would find comfort and security in a lack of it. As always, she is a riddle, and as always, he finds it too fascinating to abandon.

And once the horses are returned to their stalls and they’ve snuck back into the castle, into the hidden corridor that will bring the queen safely back to her own chamber and him to a corridor closer to his, she turns and looks at him, grinning again.

“You still haven’t fully admitted your wrongs,” she points out, practically vibrating with glee.

“Do you ever truly let anything go?” He wonders aloud, not even trying to hide the adoring affection in his tone or his expression.

“Not without a fight,” she admits easily. She clasps her hands behind her back and leans against the stone wall, obviously content to wait as long as it takes to win her final point of victory in the matter.

“Fine. I concede that the good lady truly does believe that she was not lost in the woods today.”

Her brows furrow at that. “I have no problem fighting you again, here and now.”

He loves her for the suddenness and the surety of her declaration, even if it is mainly in jest. Loves her for the hypocrisy of being unable to let him bend rules in the exact same way that she does. Still, he opens his arms slightly, as if welcoming the challenge. “It would be a sheer feat, to see you wield that longsword of yours in a passageway so narrow and cramped.”

She huffs in amusement at that, though she cuts a meaningful look his way. “Don’t doubt that I could, jarl. For both our sakes.”

He can’t help himself. She’s so delightful when she’s smug and over-confident. He reaches up with his right hand, cupping the side of her neck and stroking his thumb along the line of her jaw.

“I’ll gladly concede anything the lady wishes,” he admits softly.

Her expression slackens and she blinks, her eyes blown so wide that it almost startles him. The air is suddenly too thick, too heavy around them.

“Anything?” She whispers. He feels utterly trapped by her gaze. The word hangs in the air, and Eist feels the sudden awareness of a precipice before them.

“Anything.” He agrees thickly. She keeps saying she fears pushing too far—but gods above, he’s never going to be the one who stops her, that is for certain.

She pushes off the wall, closer to him. Her gaze shifts, down to his lips. “Then give me one last moment to think on, before we say goodnight.”

Again, he’s never truly been able to refuse her. So he lets his right hand pull her closer in, his left instinctively anchoring at her hip as her arms slip around his neck, bringing him into another kiss.

It’s slower, this time. Not tinged with sadness, like the first. Not heady and shaking like the second. It’s deep, filled with savoring and searching. She pulls him further into her, further down as her hips push into his. There’s dead silence in the stone passageway, and their breathing echoes oddly, along with the soft, wet sounds their mouths make, an almost-obscene little symphony that only spikes his blood further and makes him hold her tighter, desperate for more of it all, for more of her. Her hands fumble slightly behind his neck and he wonders briefly—though he is a bit too distracted by other things to truly think on it. Then he hears the sound of gloves being tossed to the floor, and feels her hand, without the barrier of leather, slipping up the back of his neck and into his hair.

She gives a small, grateful sigh as she lightly tugs, just enough to be felt. His knees nearly give out then and there. He moves forward, bringing her along with him, pushing her back against the wall as both hands settle on her hips, pinning her into place as his tongue dives back into her mouth. She arches and makes a noise of approval, pushing up on tiptoe to better meet him.

 _Give me one last moment to think on_ —he has no doubt exactly what she will be doing, when she thinks of this moment, and his body only floods with more heat.

She breaks from the kiss, but comes back to pepper smaller ones along his jaw. He can feel the heavy unsteadiness of her breathing against his skin as her hands slip beneath his arms, hooking around to his shoulderblades to pull him closer as her mouth begins to leave open-mouthed kisses down the line of his neck.

He braces his hands against the wall, trying not to disturb her efforts. She reaches his collarbone and her teeth come out—a low moan pulls from his lungs at the sensation, at how right her feral adoration feels. She hums in response and sucks the spot she’s bitten, fingertips pushing into his flesh with a sense of possessiveness that makes his head spin further.

A sound clangs and echoes down the passageway, and they both jump. Calanthe burrows into his neck for a beat more before hoarsely whispering, “We should go.”

“As you wish,” he returns heavily. Though it’s certainly not what he desires in this moment.

“It isn’t what I wish,” she echoes his inner thought. “But what we must.”

He makes a small noise of understanding and agreement. Still, they both wait, both stay just a beat longer—she places a tiny, tender kiss on his neck again and he understands the unspoken command. He slowly withdraws, relishing every small shift and touch between them. He steps back, retrieves her gloves off the floor and hands them to her—she’s smiling softly, not quite meeting his gaze, and there’s something absolutely endearing about her sudden shyness, after she’s so brazenly bitten and sucked on his neck like an absolute wanton.

It’s a bit like the shift he sees whenever she fights—she loses control, in the heat of the moment. It’s an intriguing thought, to be certain. Something to consider, along with several other appealing things, when he’s alone with his thoughts again.

He feels another rush of heat at the realization that even though they’re about to part ways, there’s going to be another shared moment between them afterwards. They’ll go to their separate beds, but they’ll certainly linger in each other’s thoughts for quite a while, in very specific and intimate ways.

And this time, she doesn’t apologize or fill with regret. She merely flashes another sparkling-eyed smile over her shoulder as she takes the burning torch from the wall and leads him down the passage, her steps light and quick. He gladly follows along, though at the first turn, she holds up her hand, halting him as she peers around the corner.

He wonders who else knows about these secret halls, what else might have made the sound that startled them both and ruined one of the most wonderful moments of his life.

She gently motions him to follow, and onward they go. Eventually she stops, indicating the door on one side of the passage. Obviously, it’s the one he should use, to get to the corridor near his chambers.

“I bid you a pleasant and restful night, good jarl.” She's still holding the torch, and her face is awash in a warm glow, eyes glittering with affection and a hint of amused mischief. She, too, has no doubt of how his evening will end, once he's back in his own chamber.

“Beyond pleasant, I can assure you,” he returns with a warm smile of his own. She blushes a bit, but doesn’t stop gazing directly at him. “And I wish the same for you, good queen.”

“A wish already quite assured as well,” she says, taking another step back and keeping her eyes locked onto his.

He takes a beat to commit the sight to memory, then moves ahead, opening the door. He doesn’t look back, but he can hear the soft, quick paces of her feet upon the stone floor, hurrying off to her own chambers.

He isn't entirely sure what this means for them now, not yet, and he isn't sure that she knows, either. He'll be here for another week, for the tournament. Anything could happen, he thinks, even as he tries not to let his heart get too far ahead of itself. By now, he has learned the ebb and flow of her tides—Calanthe will need to adjust, to weigh more choices and consequences, and he can gladly wait for her to do so. Every good moment, every step forward, has come from waiting, from letting her see that she is always free to make her own choices, that he will never force her hand—and every moment of heartache between them has always come from her being pushed too soon, her lashing out or retreating in fear.

The only reason that scorching moment in the passageway occurred is because he'd so deeply assured her that everything was still safe between them, after the duel. As long as he keeps proving just that, she'll keep pushing forward, he knows with all his heart. If he gives her safety, she'll return to him with courage. She didn't push into that second kiss because she was fearful, but rather because she felt that she had no reason to fear.

The thought makes his heart flutter in delight as he quietly enters his own chambers and firmly closes the door. He unbuckles the sword and scabbard from his hip, smiling softly in warm amusement. 

He’s never been so delighted to have lost a duel in all his life. Ecstatic, even.


	12. Erlenwald

**Cintra. Spring, 1249.**

The Queen of Cintra, on the occasion of her thirty-fourth birthday, invites several nobles for a few days of hawking and hunting. The Jarl of Skellige graciously accepts her invitation, bringing along his nephew—Crach an Craite being a notorious lover of the hunt, of course.

That is the story for all the world. The letters exchanged between Cintra and the Isles, written in code, tell a different tale.

It will be another chance for Eist and Calanthe to bring Crach and Pavetta together, naturally. And to spend their own evenings finalizing plans for the potential marriage. In the winter, around Pavetta’s fourteenth birthday, Calanthe was all but cornered by her nobles, who clamored to have the princess wed off so that the country could be secured once more ( _secured by a cock underneath the crown, once again_ , she’d added in her missive, and Eist had been able to hear the exact tone she’d use, if they were speaking in person). She’d been able to give one last push, reassuring them that on Pavetta’s fifteenth birthday, she would open her doors and her arms to welcome any man who sought her daughter’s hand.

Once again, Calanthe plays to the letter of the rules, not the spirit. She will open her doors. She will welcome any man—but she won’t actually _give_ her daughter to anyone other than the one she’s already chosen.

Still, no need for anyone else to know that.

Eist smiles at her cunning ways, at how she always plays the game without ever playing it fairly—though he understands that for her, the game was never set in a way that would allow her a fair chance of winning. He’s still slightly mystified as to why her nobles are so insistent on Pavetta’s marriage. Calanthe has ruled alone for nearly six years now (truth be told, she’d managed most of the day-to-day affairs of running the country, even if she had to do it in Roegner’s name, for years before that as well), and if anything, she’s reproven Cintra’s might, through the victory in Sodden and now another battle won in the south, over the winter—Nilfgaard, having secured its stronghold in Toussaint, had tried to push over the mountains, into the southeastern corner of Cintra. The Lioness had been waiting for them, with overwhelming force. She was, once again, heralded as the heroine of her nation.

It is that heroine and savoir who greets him with a calm smile and a benevolent air as he returns to court, seated upon her throne in absolute power as she offers words of welcome to him and his nephew. She wears a gown of bright cerulean, golden lions brocaded onto the wide shoulders. Her crown is pure gold, as rich and warm as the sun, only accenting the darkness of her features.

“We thank you deeply for making the journey—especially when the time between us shall be so short.” She’s using her queenliest tone, not the least bit sarcastic or coy. He follows her lead and remains as politely neutral as ever, not even sparing a secret smile as he bows.

“Any chance to celebrate with our ally and friend is time well spent,” he assures her. She gives a perfunctory smile and nods in approval.

She didn’t pull away, after that exhilarating night of their second duel. But they have advanced no further. The first few nights after that, he was so exhausted from the tournament that they did not hold any meetings or chaperone any times between Crach and Pavetta. Then he injured his shoulder quite deeply during a joust. He finished the match and won it, pushed on by sheer adrenaline and the need to see her expression when he stood the victor (and oh, to see those eyes sparkle like that, he’d do it all over again), but by that evening, he knew that he could not continue the competition. There had been two more days of the tournament left, and the Skelligen party had stayed to watch it through. But he and Calanthe did not have another night alone together—they spent the last two evenings in the queen’s private receiving room with Pavetta and Crach in tow, playing cards or games of wit and memory.

But he’d been glad, in a way. It had been a chance for Calanthe to truly see that nothing between them had changed. On the last night, when they’d been sat in the window seats, quietly pouring over some book as Pavetta and Crach had continued with another round of cards, she’d simply pushed her hand across the seat cushion, fingertips lightly trilling over his. He’d looked up and she’d merely smiled at him, warm and wanting in a way that had made his heart forget its purpose for several moments. Then she’d turned back to her reading as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, even though he could see the pulse thrumming in her neck, the light flush creeping up into her cheeks.

He’d known then that she was attempting to reassure him. To let him know that she wasn’t retreating, wasn’t using Pavetta as a shield to keep him at a greater distance.

His heart had still been singing, by the time he boarded his ship the next morning.

It’s been seven months since. He’d planned to visit Cintra sooner, but then the skirmish with Nilfgaard had occurred and Calanthe had cancelled.

They’ve still written, nearly every week now, save the month she spent campaigning down to the southeast and back. They’ve discussed all sorts of topics, but they haven’t discussed how or if things between them are shifting forward or shifting at all.

He’s been aching to see her. Not just to gain clarity, not even just to possibly kiss her or hold her again. He finds that he has missed her voice, missed her jokes and her quick wit. Missed the way she turns the air electric with a breath or a lift of a brow, the way she brings softness with her fingertips and the way she hums when he touches her in turn.

He has to stop himself from thinking any further on that particular vein, seeing as they are still in court, still in the broad light of day. Unfortunately, they are not the only ones who have arrived this afternoon, and the queen receives the rest of her notable guests with the exact same level of calm warmth.

There is one other ruler here—King Foltest, who presents her with a new array of hawks. Now she visibly delights, almost as giddy as a child, rising up in her seat and all but clapping her hands as the birds are paraded into the room.

Skellige brought gifts, too, of course. But nothing can compare with a gift so bespoke, Eist knows. As is customary, each noble brought something indicative of their own region or country—but everyone knows the queen holds particular affection for the hawks of Temeria. No one could ever truly compete.

Still, his heart jealously wishes that he could give her the kinds of gifts that are truly tailored to her heart and its passions. That he could make her smile with such simple, pure joy, so openly, for all the world to see.

But they still have roles to play. And for all the world to see, he is simply the Jarl of Skellige, ally to the Queen of Cintra, and nothing more. He doesn’t need the world to see, he knows, but still, he wishes he could give her something, just between them, just for her, just to show the measure of his affection.

That evening, there is a feast, and she is still in a delighted mood, practically rattling with energy.

He sits at her table—and it is then that he sees just how thickly her makeup is applied, particularly under her eyes, as if to hide dark circles. He notes how quickly she drinks her wine, how many times it has to be refilled. He begins to realize that her delight careens dangerously close to something more frenetic, as if she’s trying to channel the energy in a positive direction but its source is something far darker. Her eyes are bright and burning, her smiles are all teeth. She’s sharp, too sharp. Sharp enough to cut herself.

He thinks of how she was, two years ago—deeply fixated on her own mortality. She is now officially the age of her father, when he died. Only a year younger than Roegner, if he remembers correctly.

He begins to suspect, with a heavying heart, that she’s spiraling into that strange place of worry and fear again.

Of course, there are other reasons to be concerned. Mousesack had come to him, just before dinner—there are apparently rumors of an uprising in the south, in a region called Erlenwald. Certain sources around the castle think that the queen will don her armor and ride out by the week’s end, if things do not improve.

But no one’s uttering rumors of a pregnancy, and she is openly drinking at dinner tonight, which he takes as a good sign. He tries to remain light and unaffected, to joke and spar with her as usual. She’s a beat too quick in the conversation, he notes. Almost as if she’s afraid of running out of time, as if she’s trying to hurry things along or move so quickly that she can’t think of anything else. To anyone else, she’s glittering and golden as ever, but he worries over the source of her shine.

Then he sees her stiffen—his eyes follow her line of sight to see a man striding towards her, with the kind of determined gait that signals serious news.

 _Serious_ usually equates with _bad_.

She cautiously watches the man mount the dais and walk around the table. She sits back in her chair, turns her head slightly to let him whisper over her shoulder. Eist notes that this is the quietest and stillest she’s been all evening.

He watches her face with careful concern. There’s a twitch, right at the corner of her mouth. Bad news, for certain. He can almost physically see the odd energy draining out of her completely. Now she seems heavy, almost…resigned.

“Apologies,” she breathes in a low rasp, removing her napkin from her lap and setting it on the table. “I must attend to matters of state.”

She stands and slips past him—and if anyone else were to see, they’d think the way her hip brushed against his arm was an utter accident, but he can feel the weight of it, the slow measured way she moves. Not a tease, no—it radiates with a desire to seek comfort, in some soft and unnamable way.

His helpless hands curl into fists in his lap. He watches her go, trying to mask his expression behind curiosity rather than the worry he feels for her.

Several other nobles leave—her advisors and members of her war council, he notes. In hindsight, he wonders if that is the true reason she held a birthday celebration—it allowed her to have key members of the nobility on hand and ready for action, should the need arise, all under the perfectly innocent veneer of a birthday hunt.

She truly in a wonder, this woman of clever and cunning. Always ten steps ahead on the chess board that only she can see.

The night goes on, and if the queen’s departure caused a stir, it is quickly forgotten thanks to a lively bard and enough young people who love to dance.

Crach asks Pavetta, and she agrees, but Eist knows they’re both only doing it because convention demands.

They’re aware, he and Calanthe have agreed. They’re not stupid; it didn’t take long for them to realize exactly what the adults were angling towards. And while Eist can see that it’s certainly not love at first sight, perhaps there will be something they can build upon. They do get on well, even if only in a friendly sort of way.

 _It’s only because teenagers—like toddlers—share one common trait: the need to defy their parents, for the sheer purpose of having control_. That’s what Calanthe had said, in one of her letters. He’d immediately thought she was a rather dark kettle to be calling the pot black, but wisely did not point that out in his response. Calanthe is convinced that they will wed without issue or true complaint, but that both are simply pretending to resist because it is the general nature of teenagers. With which, in all honesty, Eist cannot disagree.

It doesn’t matter, either way, he thinks. Calanthe of Cintra has decided, therefore it shall happen.

He simply stares unseeingly at the dancers, wishing for all the world that he was wherever Calanthe is now—feasts are tedious as hell, they’ve only ever been bearable when he was sat next to her. To add to it, she’s potentially in crisis, and his only impulse is to rush to her, to offer what help he can, as always.

As if an answer to his unspoken prayers, Pemell, one of the queen’s personal guards, skirts around the edge of the great hall. Eist sits up, immediately curious. Pemell glances up again, notes his look, and motions for him to join him, outside the hall. Eist tries to leave as inconspicuously as possible.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, as soon as they’re out of the great hall.

Pemell doesn’t answer the question—he’s too well-trained to do anything other than exactly as he’s been instructed to do. “The queen requests your presence in her study.”

Eist nods and nearly bolts down the corridor, pulling himself back as he realizes that Pemell is meant to escort him. With a flush of chagrin, he realizes that perhaps he isn’t meant to be so obviously acquainted with exactly how to get to the queen’s private study, considering that so few people know just how often he has visited it.

The queen is not in her study, when they arrive. So Eist paces and Pemell waits quietly in the corner, obviously not leaving the Skelliger alone until the queen herself arrives.

It feels like an age, but Eist isn’t sure how long it actually is before the door opens and her face appears. It takes every ounce of self-control not to rush over to her and ask a dozen questions.

“Thank you, Pemell,” she offers in a low tone, stepping aside so that her guard can exit. She quietly closes the door, leans against it for a beat, watching him with dark and unreadable eyes.

“I have to go,” she finally breaks the silence, her voice barely a rasp. “In the morning—we march out for Erlenwald.”

“The uprising has gotten worse,” he guesses. He doesn’t clarify how he knows, and she doesn’t seem surprised at his knowledge—then again, they’ve both been aware of Mousesack’s role and just how he gains such information.

She nods. Quietly, she adds, “We believe…it’s not just the locals. They’re being…helped, by outside forces.”

“Nazair?” He hazards.

She gives a slight lift of her right shoulder, an almost-shrug. Still, it seems to be her guess, too. She sinks further against the door. “It’s going to be another Hochebuz, all over again.”

There’s something in her tone that sits uneasily. He knows that she doesn’t view it as the glorious battle that the ballad claims—no, she’s called it pointless and petty—but there’s something else here now, something odd and fearful, pulsing and skittering in the shadows around her eyes.

“Then you shall be victorious, all over again.” He returns softly, not sure of what to say, what to do to take away that unreadable expression, that tension lining every inch of her frame.

He thinks again of the scar on her shoulder. Of just how fragile her shoulders are, how delicate her hands, how soft and lovely her neck—she is a warrior, through and through, but that only makes her all the more miraculous, because her body is not built for war.

“If—” She blinks quickly, swallows hard enough that he can see it, even with such distance between them. “If Cintra should call upon Skellige for aid—”

“It will be given, without hesitation,” he assures her, hand coming over his heart.

“How swift are your ships?” She breathes, and even then, he hears the tinge of fear.

“How far would they need to travel?” He returns.

She nods, recognizing the validity of his question. Pushes off the door, clips her way across the entire study, to the corner where the maps are stored. She pulls one out, brings it to the drafting table. He helps her unfurl it and weigh down the corners. She taps the area in question. “Here. That will be—most likely—where we meet them in the field. A half-day’s march from the coast.”

 _Hochebuz_ , the map proclaims, just a breath from her finger. As if she’s intentionally not touched it, as if the word itself is cursed. He gauges the distance up to the Isles, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. “It would take us two days to make the journey, at top speed and with good weather. Plus the time it would take to send a raven…”

“We’re looking at nearly a week,” she surmises. She isn’t happy at the thought.

“I could send for them tonight,” he offers quietly. “They could be there, almost by the time you arrived as well.”

She hums at that, weighing the idea in her mind.

“No,” she decides quietly. “Even if there are outside forces aiding them, at first glance, this is still a queen riding against her own people. To have foreign invaders take up the task looks even worse—makes me look more Skelligen than Cintran, aside from simply making me look too weak to fight my own battles.”

She pauses for another beat, then turns and walks over to another section of her study. Her fingers delicately trace along a line in the carved wood around the bookcase, and a small section springs open.

She’s letting him see this, he realizes. She trusts him, absolutely. She pulls out a collection of pages, bound in a soft leather wrapping. She closes the section of wall and walks back to him, not meeting his gaze.

“This,” she states holding it out to him. “Contains all the documents necessary to prove Crach’s claim to Pavetta’s hand, should I—should I not return—”

“Calanthe—”

“You can offer all the reassurances in the world, Eist, but you will take the damn papers and you will ensure my daughter is saved from the machinations of these fucking filthy men if ever I should—”

She chokes suddenly, closing her eyes and pulling air back into her lungs with absolute determination. When she looks at him again, it is with pure desperation. “Promise me, Eist Tuirseach. Give me your word.”

“You have it,” he says gently, reaching out to take the papers. She deflates and sinks forward slightly, as if perhaps she’d feared he might refuse somehow (as if she does not know him, does not know by now that he will always answer her call).

He sets the papers on the table and moves forward, making his approach as slow and cautious as possible. He lightly places his fingers under her chin, bringing her gaze to meet his again.

“Now you must promise me something in return. Promise me that you will triumph, and that you will ride back into your Cintra a conqueror, as ever. Promise me that I will have the pleasure of your company again, for many nights after this.”

She gives a shaky smile at that, her eyes glistening with tears.

But she doesn’t promise.

“Kiss me,” she says simply. Somehow, it sounds exactly like _goodbye_.

And he does. He caresses the side of her face and pulls her in for slow, soft kiss. He feels her exhale, pushing into his own lungs like the last breath leaving her body, and he feels a sudden tightness in his chest, and overwhelming panic at the thought of losing her. He tries to channel that frenetic feeling into something more productive, tries to let his tongue and teeth show her the depth of his love and adoration. She merely hums, and melts, her hands lightly resting on his hips but otherwise doing nothing except letting him take what he wishes.

Again, it feels like she’s giving him some parting gift. Letting him take his fill, his last drink of whatever this is between them. Though she returns the kiss fully, though she sighs and shifts against him in encouragement, there’s no true desire or yearning on her part, he realizes numbly.

She has accepted her fate. She doesn’t push or yearn for more, because she truly believes they’ll never have a chance for more. Again, he feels a flash of fear—does Adalia’s daughter possess some kind of sight, does she see something that the others cannot? Has this been what she has seen coming, all along? Has he lost her, already?

He pulls back, takes a shaky breath to steel himself against the thought.

Her hands come up, as gentle as doves, tracing over his cheekbones, redrawing the lines of his nose and eyebrows, delicately touching his lips. He watches her face, the soft, open adoration nearly blinding him as she simply smiles, a bit sadly.

“You’re going to make some woman very happy one day, Eist Tuirseach,” she says thickly.

 _Let it be you_ , he thinks, a bit hopelessly. But again, he's overwhelmed by the terrifying realization that she is absolutely making her farewell.

“Thank you,” she adds. Her hands are still moving, fingers curling so that her knuckles brush over his cheeks again.

It’s too much. And yet, if this truly is the end, it’s not enough. He gently captures her right hand, feeling another surge of sorrow at how easily she yields, how complacently she flexes and folds to his touch, tender and willing to give him whatever he needs to say goodbye.

He kisses her wrist—he done it a dozen times now, but it’s never been enough, and the thought that it may be the last makes him want to weep.

She makes a small, soft noise—but it’s nostalgic, not needy. She slips her free hand around his waist, pulling herself up against him and resting her head gingerly on his right shoulder, careful not to disturb his mouth's efforts against her wrist.

Their positions make him realize that they’ve never danced together before. Just one of the myriad of things they’ve never do, if this truly is their last night.

He pushes the thought away, pushes his mouth harder against her wrist, lets his teeth come out to lightly test against her pulse point. She inhales and shifts against him, burying her face in his chest.

 _Please_ , he thinks, _awaken. Be my love again. Be the thing of fire and fury, be the thing that can never die, be the thing that will always conquer, will always return._

But she doesn’t. She remains still and silent and soft, already gone, already a ghost.

“I know,” her voice breaks the stillness, heavy and halting and half-muffled by his doublet. “I know we are…more, now. But I—I want you to know that you have been one of the truest friends I have ever known. I am deeply grateful for all that you have given to my life. And I…truly wish nothing but the very best for you, in all things.”

“Stop.” He closes his eyes softly. He keeps her wrist close to his lips, warm and still filled with blood and life. “Stop acting as if this is the end.”

“I am my father’s age,” she whispers back, tone low and soft but words quick and panicked. “Sent back to the place of my crowning glory—what else can happen but exactly what must? A lioness rises, surely she must fall.”

He lets go of her wrist now, placing his hand on the back of her head, holding her close, shielding her against her own dark thoughts.

“You will not fall.” He surprises himself with the command in his tone.

She simply melts against him more, tightening her grip around him.

“Promise me again,” she prompts, voice and body lined with a sudden sense of urgency. “No matter what happens—no matter who comes forward and tries to take Pavetta away—promise me that you will ensure she marries Crach.”

The phrasing is a bit odd, but he still readily agrees, “I will keep her safe, Calanthe.”

That’s what she’s really asking of him. And gods above, it’s an easy promise to make—not just for her sake, but for Pavetta’s. He's known this child for half her life, how could he not adore her precocious ways and charming personality, how could he not want to protect her tender heart and her fighting spirit, how could he not fight tooth and nail to preserve the living legacy of the only woman he’s ever truly loved?

“Thank you,” she breathes, practically melting into him. They’re standing upright but he can still feel the whole weight of her body leaning into his. He takes her hand again, lets his thumb stroke over the center of her palm, across the heartline. Each brush is a prayer, a mantra, an attempt to call forth a spirit that seems long departed.

 _Please please please_ , his mind begs. He doesn’t fully know what he’s pleading for, or why, but he feels it down to his bones. He’s holding her in his arms and yet he’s still aching for her to return.

There is a commotion, outside her study. They both shift towards the door—she ducks her head, blinks the shimmering in her eyes away and takes a step farther away from him, and he mourns the loss of her in his arms, even as he steps a bit farther away, too.

The door shunts open, and Pavetta’s worried face appears.

“It’s true?” She guesses, her eyes locked on her mother. “You’re going? To Erlenwald?”

“Yes, love.” Calanthe’s voice is soft, but there are no more tears. She shifts, her shoulders becoming straighter—Eist feels as if he’s seen her mentally step into armor.

“Don’t go,” Pavetta begs, moving towards her. Calanthe reaches for her, takes her hands.

“There’s nothing to fear,” she assures her daughter with a smile. Nothing like the woman who shook and silently wept, just moments ago. “I’ll be back before—”

“It’s _wrong_ ,” Pavetta interrupts, with sudden vehemence.

Eist blinks hard, can feel the same level of surprise that he sees jolt through Calanthe’s entire frame.

Pavetta continues, “You can’t march against your own people. They’re just—”

“Threatening to overthrow the monarchy,” Calanthe interjects, a bit firmly. Still, her face is lined with shock, and her voice is still tinged with a softness that she only uses with her daughter, Eist has noted. “Of which you happen to be a part, my dear girl.”

“They need our help, not our might,” Pavetta shoots back. “You said so yourself—the aim of a good queen is to—”

“Protect her people,” Calanthe snaps, tightening her grip on Pavetta’s hands. Now she’s speaking quickly, much more cutting and firm. “Sometimes that means protecting them from the consequences of their own stupid actions—”

“Actions _you_ have driven them to!” Pavetta jerks her hands away, glaring at her mother in a way that Eist has never seen before. He feels awkward and out of place, but he doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t do anything to bring any attention to himself or make the situation any worse. He understands that whatever discussion they’re having, it’s one they’ve had countless times over the recent weeks, and there’s more involved that what he’s seeing and hearing in this moment.

Calanthe looks at her daughter for a beat. Her chest is heaving, Eist suddenly realizes. Her hands are clenched into fists and her jaw is tight—and yet, her eyes still look as if she might cry again.

“Now is not the time for such things.” The queen’s voice is low, heavy with unspoken reprimand.

Pavetta seems to notice Eist for the first time. She blinks quickly, as if chagrined at her own actions. Then, she quickly loses her embarrassment to set her shoulders and raise her voice once more. “I suppose you stand with her on this one, don’t you, jarl?”

“She does not need my stance, either way,” Eist supplies diplomatically. “The queen rules her kingdom as she sees fit, as it should be.”

Pavetta huffs at that.

“As it should be,” she echoes. Her expression twists with pain and anger. “And tell me—should it be that a princess is handed off to some nephew of a sailor, without a drop of noble blood—”

“Pavetta,” Calanthe hisses, stepping forward and fixing her daughter with a dark and meaningful stare. “Now is _not_ the time—”

“It’s never the time,” Pavetta whirls back to her mother. “Tell me, when _will_ it be? When all is said and done, and you’ve gotten your way—yet again, as ever?”

“One day, the crown will rest on your head, and then you will understand,” Calanthe informs her. She suddenly looks very tired, Eist thinks. There are lines under her eyes and around her mouth that he hadn’t noticed before.

“There won’t be a crown, if you burn the whole kingdom to the ground to satisfy your ego,” Pavetta retorts.

“Queen of the ashes is still queen,” Calanthe returns coolly, standing a bit taller.

“Don’t go,” Pavetta demands, yet again—and this time her tone is such that Eist knows it will not work. Calanthe of Cintra has never taken orders well. True to form, her expression shifts into something flat and intractable.

“As far as this conversation is concerned, I am already gone,” her mother states, completely devoid of emotion.

Pavetta’s expression crumples, then resets into a mask of anger that looks so much like her mother that it nearly startles Eist.

“This is why they call you tyrant,” she all but spits, and Eist feels the word land painfully in his own chest, feels the venom and bite in how she says it and how forcefully she throws it out, an absolute weapon (oh, she is her mother’s child, no doubting that). She turns her attention to Eist. “Try, _for once_ , not to agree with her. Tell her what a fool she’s being, and tell her not to march on Erlenwald. For all our sakes.”

With that, she storms back out, just as abruptly as she came. Her final say on the matter is a hard, rattling slam of the door.

Eist blinks, half-certain that he just hallucinated the whole thing—he’s never seen Pavetta so shaken, so virulent. But he looks back to Calanthe, who suddenly looks so small and bereft, still staring at the now-closed door, and he knows that every second was real.

She turns away, lightly brings her hand to her temple—hiding her face from him, he realizes. And he understands her chagrin. Calanthe has always been deeply private, and even though she’s opened up to him about her issues with Pavetta, he’s fairly certain no one would relish having an audience as their only and deeply beloved child calls them all manner of unkind things in such harsh and unforgiving tones.

Her other hand comes up, to cover her stomach.

“You will…protect her?” She asks again, voice lined with competing emotions. He can sense her trying to untangle them herself, unsuccessfully.

“Of course,” he returns gently. Her shoulders are so high and tight, as if she’s in physical pain, and he wants to hold her again, to do anything to bring her even the slightest measure of comfort.

“And…you will teach Crach—tell him to be kind. To be…understanding.” She keeps her back turned to him, and something in her shaking voice tells him that it’s the only way she can keep going. “It is not easy, being a wife, and a queen—she will have so much to adjust to, with so many burdens and so many other battles to fight. She will need time. Please, tell him to give her time.”

There’s something so broken in her words and her tone, he feels his throat tighten with unshed tears. He cannot help himself. He moves forward now, gently takes her shoulders and leans in to whisper, “I will protect her. I will make sure he treats her just as I would treat you, if our lives were so entwined.”

She makes a small, almost-sobbing noise at that, ducking her head. And it in, he hears love. She understands, so deeply, exactly what such a promise means. Despite all this sadness and fear and heartache, he feels a measure of gladness. Yes, she knows. She knows the depth of his devotion, truly. At least that can never be a source of regret.

She places her hands over his. Quietly decrees, “Then she will have a happy life. That’s all I can wish for her.”

He wants to point out that she’ll be there to witness Pavetta’s happy life for years to come. Wants her to abandon this morbid preoccupation with her own death. Wants her to prove wrong all these dour predictions. Wants to whirl her around to face him and kiss her fiercely and hold her until she promises that she’ll return to him, return to her usual self, return to being the brightest star upon the world’s horizon. Wants more time, more of her, more of them, together.

But as always, he is helpless to do anything but allow her to happen, however she does.

Her hands press over his for a beat. Then, she says, “I must prepare. There is much to do, before the dawn.”

She slips away. Off to finalize the affairs of her life, he realizes with another flash of panic. She’s so wholeheartedly certain that she shall not return.

She stops as she reaches the door. Braces her hands against it.

“It is lovely to imagine, isn’t it?” She asks, breaking the heavy stillness. She turns, looks back over her shoulder with an expression of both hope and regret. “If our lives had been…just a little different. How lovely it all would have been.”

His heart stops. He knows that she’s referring to his earlier words: _if our lives were so entwined_. Understands that maybe, perhaps for the first time, she’s done what he did, the very first night they met: imagined a world where they met sooner, where they had been able to act upon their immediate attraction. Or perhaps imagined what it would be like, if she’d simply accepted his first (or even his second) proposal of marriage.

He swallows the lump in his throat. Pushes his voice to speak. “It’s lovely now. It’s always been lovely. All of it. Always.”

Not entirely true, and her expression implies that she’s aware of his obvious lie, though she appreciates the kindness of it.

She smiles again, in the kind of heartbroken and heartbreaking way that never fails to make him want to fall to his knees and sacrifice the world to bring her joy again.

She doesn’t say goodbye. He finds himself grateful, in a way. She merely opens the door and disappears.

She’s left him here. Alone, in her private study. It’s a sign of absolute trust, yet again. And yet Eist doesn’t want it. Doesn’t want to be here, if she’s not. Doesn’t want to belong somewhere that she doesn’t. Doesn’t want to be a part of any world that doesn’t have her in it.

He’s known that he loves her. But now, he realizes just how deeply. He wants to run after her, to declare that he’ll fight by her side in Erlenwald, do anything he can to ensure she survives.

He glances back to the drafting table, where the leather-bound collection of papers sits.

This is love, too, he tells himself. Calanthe of Cintra rarely asks for what she wants, much less what she needs—but she has asked this of him. He will not fail her.

He takes the papers and prays to every god he can name—even to ones he does not even know—that he never has to use them, never has to prove himself or his love in this way.

She will survive, he tells himself. The thought becomes a mantra, running through his head over and over again as he heads to his chambers, far too emotionally exhausted to even attempt returning to the banquet. She has to. There can be no other alternative. His heart cannot survive any other outcome. For, after all, she is his heart. All of it. Always.


End file.
